filling in the blanks as we go
by Katertots
Summary: Thirty seconds ago she was seeing red, ready to tear down everyone in her path. Then a stupid bag of frozen peas and a whiff of Matt Casey's laundry detergent has her going weak in the knees. Maybe she got hit in the head harder than she thought. Sylvie x Matt pairing.
1. A Fresh Page

_We were a fresh page on the desk_

_Filling in the blanks as we go_

_As if a street light pointed in an arrowhead_

_Leading us home_

_-"Cornelia Street", Taylor Swift_

* * *

There's something about the middle-of-the-night stillness at 51 that Matt's always found oddly comforting. It's only a matter of time, he knows, before the alarm pierces the quiet and sends them off in the direction of the next call. For now though, he's content to enjoy the fleeting calm as long as it lasts.

Matt closes the file for his last call report and switches off the lamp on his desk. Pushing out of his chair, he walks quietly past the bunk room where everyone else is sleeping and heads for the kitchen. He's a little surprised once he turns the corner to find that he's not the only one up at this hour. Sylvie's sitting criss-cross on the end of the counter, shoulders slumped, eating ice cream directly from the carton. She doesn't notice his presence, too lost in whatever thoughts put that gloomy, faraway expression on her face.

They haven't talked much since she returned to 51 a couple weeks ago, and a pang of guilt courses through him. Matt tells himself it's because he's been busy training Gallo, but if he truly wanted to get introspective, he knows it's more than that. But i_that_/i isn't something he even knows how to define or wrap his head around.

Still, Sylvie is a member of his 51 family, his friend, and right now she's sad. He owes it to her to try and cheer her up.

He clears his throat, and Sylvie startles with a squeak from her place atop the counter, flicking her big blue eyes up to meet his. They're shiny with unshed tears, and Matt's protective instincts flicker to life.

She blows out a breath and swipes the back of her hand quickly under her eyes. "You scared me," she admonishes quietly, focusing her gaze back on the ice cream in her hands.

"Sorry," he replies, walking towards the counter. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sylvie shrugs—a noncommittal answer if there ever was one—and lifts another spoonful of chocolate ice cream to her lips.

It doesn't bother him if she doesn't want to talk, but Sylvie isn't one to keep her cards close to the vest. Matt can wait until she's ready. "Mind if I sit?" he asks, pointing to the space beside her.

She waves her hand over the space in invitation. "Sure, but I'm not sharing my ice cream. Okay, it's Capp's ice cream and I stole it, but I'm going to replace it I promise!"

Matt huffs out an amused breath and hops up beside her. "Secret's safe with me."

They sit in silence for long, drawn-out minutes until he thinks that maybe she isn't going to talk after all. Then, she puts down the ice cream and tucks her hands under her legs. "This place isn't the same as when I left," Sylvie says softly.

Another wave of guilt crashes in his gut. Losing Otis was devastating, and he carries that weight around daily. "No, it's not."

"I never should have left," she admits, her voice tight with the threat of fresh tears. "And I feel guilty for that. Like I abandoned my family in the middle of their grief to go start a new life. One I shouldn't have said i_yes/i_ to in the first place."

Matt's jaw twitches and he stares down at the floor. While it had been Sylvie's decision to make, he feels partly responsible for nudging her back towards Kyle. "You were grieving, too. It isn't a one size fits all process, Sylvie. However you grieve is your choice."

Her blonde head nods slightly. "Yeah." There's a long, quiet beat before she speaks again. "Can I admit something to you?"

He turns his head to face Sylvie and watches her worry her bottom lip between her teeth. "Of course."

Sylvie glances at him, then casts her eyes forward. "I was so relieved when I broke off my engagement and left Fowlerton. It was like I'd had an elephant sitting on my chest, and he finally moved so I could breathe. How messed up is that?

"Kyle's such a good guy," she continues. "I feel like the world's worst person for hurting him."

"Hey," Matt says softly, waiting for her to look at him. Once she does, he notices the pain and guilt reflecting in her eyes. "You can't set yourself on fire to keep other people warm."

An alarm blares throughout the station, calling for Ambulance 61, effectively putting an end to their talk. Matt watches the mask of the job slip back across her face as Sylvie tightens her ponytail and hops off the counter.

"Thanks, Casey," she calls over her shoulder, and runs for the ambo.

* * *

"I should've made you get checked out while we were at Med," Foster says as she backs the ambo into the bay at 51. It's the third time in the last half hour she's said as much.

Sylvie refrains from rolling her eyes, but it's a near thing. She loves her friend dearly, and the concern for her well-being is appreciated, but she doesn't need a damn doctor nor the mountain of bureaucratic paperwork to go with it. "You already looked at me," Sylvie reminds her, pointing to the rapidly warming ice pack against her cheek. "I'm fine." She unbuckles and hops out of the rig before Emily can say anything else.

The truck and engine crews are in the bay cleaning, so Sylvie ducks her head to avoid getting the third degree from the guys. She's in a pissy mood after that call. Her cheek and fat lip smart like hell, but there's no way her pride will let her admit that now.

"Why don't you tell the Captain and get his opinion, then?" Foster calls out behind her.

Sylvie whirls to glare daggers at traitorous friend and finds Matt approaching the ambo. i_Dammit!_/i It's not that she's been avoiding him ever since she tearfully spilled her guts the other night—necessarily—but her embarrassment over the whole situation helped successfully shield her from having any more one-on-one conversations with him.

No such luck now.

"Get my opinion about what?" Matt asks. The second his eyes land on her swollen lip his face hardens. "What happened, Brett?"

Sylvie fights off the urge to stomp her foot and tell them both to mind their own business, but the last thing she needs is to wind up in Boden's office for insubordination. "Foster and I responded to a call at a frat house. A couple of drunk meatheads were fighting and getting in the way of our care of the patient and I caught an accidental fist trying to move them. I'm fine."

"That's your third i_fine_/i in 20 minutes," Foster not-so-helpfully adds.

Her jaw tightens and she bites back the mean retort on her tongue.

"Kidd!" Casey hollers.

Stella walks up, brows raised. "What's up, Captain?" Her eyes flick over to Foster, then Sylvie, and she does a double take. "Oh, Brett! What happened?"

Casey spares her from answering, but the relief is short-lived."I need you on ambo with Foster for the rest of shift. Brett's out."

"You got it, Casey," Stella replies.

Sylvie turns on her heel and storms off, ignoring Casey when he calls her name.

Admittedly, she's being a brat; it's behavior she's not proud of, and may very well result in a reprimand from her superiors. But when other people act like they know better than she does about how she's feeling, she gets riled up, and sometimes that boils over.

A few deep breaths help smooth the worst edges of her anger, then she finally looks in the mirror to assess the injuries. Her bottom lip is red and swollen, but the skin is intact. Turning her head, she sees that her cheek looks worse with bruises already showing. It's tender to the touch, but should heal quickly. She needs more ice and some ibuprofen for her splitting headache.

Sylvie hears footsteps approaching and straightens her spine for the dressing down she's bound to receive. Matt's reflection appears in the mirror, and from the tight line of his lips and the hard set to his jaw, she knows he's pissed. With a sigh, she turns around to face the music.

"Casey, I'm—" she starts, but he cuts her off by taking her hand and dropping a bag of frozen peas into it. "Peas?"

"They stay cold longer than an instant ice pack."

It's a clever hack, and one she's not at all surprised he knows about. The corners of her lips lift in a half smile. "Yeah."

He's calmer than she'd expected him to be, and that unnerves her. "Let me see your face," he says evenly.

Sylvie tips her head up and angles the injured cheek toward him. Matt closes into her space, focused determination in his eyes. He's close enough for her to detect the clean scent of his laundry detergent, and the smell sparks a little tingle low in her belly. Then his hands cup her face, thumbs on her cheekbones, fingers brushing over her ears, and those tingles grow even bigger. i_Ridiculous_/i is the only word to describe her reaction to this. Thirty seconds ago she was seeing red, ready to tear down everyone in her path. Then a stupid bag of frozen peas and a whiff of Matt Casey's laundry detergent has her going weak in the knees.

Maybe she got hit in the head harder than she thought.

Rather than looking at his face, she focuses intently on the bugles of his red Captain's lapel pin. That feels like the safest course of action while he's touching her so she doesn't go and do something stupid. i_Like kiss him_./i With gentle fingers, Matt palpates the injured skin around her cheekbone. She tries to keep the wince at bay, but the area is tender and sore, and she sucks in a pained breath between her teeth. His hands drop away slowly and he draws her hand holding the peas up to her cheek. The cold bag against her skin snaps her back to reality.

"You're gonna have one helluva shiner, Sylvie," Matt says, taking a measured step out of her space.

She doesn't disagree. "Yeah, well, maybe it'll up my street cred when I tell people they should see the other guy."

Matt chuckles and folds his arms across his chest. "Hold on to that sense of humor because you're going to Med for an x-ray."

She's been duped! "Are you serious?" Sylvie scoffs, brows furrowed.

"As a heart attack. Foster and Kidd are waiting to take you," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door.

The anger she'd tamped down bubbles up and boils over. Her free hand balls into a fist and this time she gives into the urge to stomp her foot. Like a freaking toddler. "You're a—a—you're a butthead!"

Matt bursts out laughing, which throws her for a loop. "Did you just call me a butthead?" he asks, still laughing.

Sylvie straightens, indignant. "I thoughti_asshole/i _might warrant a write-up, but in hindsight it might've been worth it." He gives her a warning look to let her know she's walking a fine line. She closes her eyes to keep from rolling them and mumbles a half-hearted, "Sorry."

"How many times have you jumped my ass during calls insisting I need to get checked out on the rig or at the hospital?" he asks.

"Frankly, I've lost count," she retorts. He has the audacity to smirk at her, and she doesn't care one bit for how attractive he is with that expression on his face. Sylvie slumps her shoulders in defeat and her lips turn down into a pout. "Damn you and your logic, Casey," she mutters.

"Face it, Brett. First responders make the worst patients." He pats her on the shoulder and turns to leave. "Update me when you get back. There will be plenty of paperwork for you to fill out."

* * *

She hugs Foster, apologies flowing freely from her lips for being an obstinate jerk. Stella wraps her arms around them both, and the rest of the anger and annoyance fizzles out.

Sylvie holds the bag of peas on her face the whole ride to the hospital.

She doesn't breathe a word to her friends about her interaction in the locker room with Matt.

* * *

There's a knock at his office door—it's Sylvie. She's got a stack of paperwork in her hand and an apologetic smile on her lips. The bruises mottling her skin have turned purple, but they're going to get worse before they heal. "Hey," he says, turning around in his chair, a smile of his own for her. "What'd you find out?"

Leaning against the jamb, she hands over the paperwork. "No fracture, thankfully, but I do have a mild concussion. I'll be off the next few shifts until I clear protocol. If you need to say i_I told you so_/i, go ahead. I deserve to hear it."

Matt shakes his head, the corners of his mouth pulling down into a frown. It stings a little that she thinks he'd kick her while she's down. "I didn't insist you see a doctor to be right, Sylvie. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

She casts a furtive glance to the floor, but her big blue eyes are earnest when looks back at him. "No, I know you did, Matt," she says, tucking the stray tendril of sunny blonde hair behind her ear. "I appreciate it. And I wanted to say I'm sorry. My behavior earlier was obnoxious, to say the least, and I lobbed most of that at you. I'll understand if I receive a reprimand for it."

He respects her rule following nature—always has—but she's crazy if she thinks she's earned a mark on her record for this. "Cut it out. I'm not writing you up for being frustrated about this whole thing. Water under the bridge."

"Thanks, Casey. Anyway, you've got all the forms there. I'll see you in a week or two."

Sylvie starts to leave and Matt feels unsettled still, like he needs to say something else before she goes. "Hang on—um—" But he hasn't a clue what that i_something/i_ is.

"Yes?" she asks, brows raised expectantly.

Matt stands and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Jesus, he's embarrassing. "You once offered to be the person I could call if I needed to talk about anything."

One corner of her mouth twitches up as she glances away. "That offer hasn't expired."

God, she's such a _igood/i_ person. Matt swallows and forces the rest of the words out of his mouth. "I just wanted you to know it goes both ways. If you need to talk, I mean. Anytime. I'll answer."

"Careful what you wish for, Matt. I might just take you up on that." She lifts a hand in goodbye, and walks out of his office.

* * *

Sylvie doesn't call.

He doesn't know why he'd expected her to, or why he's disappointed that she hasn't.

_iIt's not like you're calling her either/i_, he reminds himself.

Matt makes a mental note to call and check on her tomorrow.

The alarm sounds with a call for Truck 81, so he tucks away any distracting thoughts and gets his head in the game.

* * *

Being on medical leave a second time within a year sucks.

It's only been a few days, but Sylvie's already bored and restless and eager to get back to work. Her headaches are subsiding, and her lip is back to its normal size. The bruises on her face are still pretty nasty, but she can cover them with makeup easily enough when she's stir crazy and needs to get out in the world.

She's not cleared for strenuous exercise, so she can't even go to spin class and sweat out her frustrations. The upside? With nothing but free time on her hands, the apartment she shares with Cruz is the cleanest it's ever been.

It still hurts to walk past Otis' old room. Sometimes she'll run across a show or stupid video he would have loved, and she almost calls for him to come watch with her. Then she remembers that he's gone, and that hollow ache of sadness blooms in her chest.

The door to his room stays closed now.

* * *

Sylvie thinks about calling Matt.

Truth is, she thinks about calling him a lot, and Sylvie doesn't know what to make of that. They're friends, of course, have been for years. And he's easy to talk to—but the last few times they've talked left her spun up for days, and she'd rather not focus on the reasons i_why/i. _Not yet anyway. 

But he'd told her to call anytime. It probably would be rude to i_not_/i take him up on that offer. She can just give him a quick update on her recovery and ask how everyone is doing, even though Emily and Stella keep her apprised of all the happenings at 51.

_iStop being so ridiculous, Sylvie Brett!_/i

She puts down her phone and heads for the kitchen to make a cup of tea and grab two of the cookies she baked yesterday.

Joe and Chloe are there in the living room, cuddled up together on the sofa playfully arguing over what to watch on Netflix. They're so cute together, so right for each other, and she's genuinely thrilled that they're engaged. A tiny little niggle of jealousy worms its way into the back of her mind over her own lack of romance. Sylvie hates herself for it, and quickly stuffs down that petty emotion. Being lonely isn't a license for her to be a jerk. Her friends deserve all the happiness in the world.

"Hey guys," she smiles as she shuffles past them into the kitchen.

Chloe flashes a bright smile back. "Hi Sylvie! How're you feeling?" she asks. "I couldn't believe it when Joe told me what happened to you."

Sylvie fills the kettle and shrugs. "I'm feeling better. I promise the bruising looks a lot worse than the injury itself."

"I'm glad. Stupid frat boys!"

Sylvie chuckles and nods in agreement. "The worst!"

"Want to watch a movie with us? Chloe says.

i_Hard pass./i _The last thing she wants to do is be a third wheel. "Oh, no. Thanks for the offer, but I'm just going to read for a while."

"C'mon, roomie," Joe says, "we're gonna watch i_Endgame_/i and I know how much you love Captain America."

Sylvie mimes swooning and clasps her hands together under her chin. "I really do. Chris Evans is dreamy."

"Mhmm," Chloe agrees.

Joe scoffs in mock offense. Both Sylvie and Chloe level him with arched brows. "Dammit, okay. He is pretty."

The kettle whistles and Sylvie turns off the burner. "You two enjoy the movie," she says after pouring a cup of tea. There's cookies in the kitchen I baked yesterday. Help yourselves!" Grabbing her tea and cookies from the counter, she makes a beeline for her bedroom.

She cozies up in bed, cocooning down into a pile of pillows and her favorite soft blanket. Her phone chirps with a text alert. Grabbing it, she sees a missed call and a new text from Matt.

There's a flutter of anticipation in her belly as she swipes her thumb quickly over the screen.

**_Matt: _**_Hey! Wanted to see how you're feeling. If you want to talk, I'm here._

It's a simple gesture, but it makes her smile. She reads the message again and screws up the courage to call him back.

* * *

It's crisp, clear night, and the familiar sounds of the city below fade into background white noise. Matt zips his coat all the way up to his chin to ward off the cold. He leans back in his chair and takes a generous sip of whiskey, enjoying the warm, satisfying path it burns down his throat.

He'd had to escape the apartment after hearing Severide and Kidd going at it—again—so he'd headed to the roof to be alone.

Jesus, he needs his own place. Severide and Kidd deserve to have their privacy without their sad sack, divorced roommate getting in the way.

He glances down at his phone to see if Sylvie's texted him back. She hasn't.

The unexpected pity party he's suddenly throwing for himself is fucking pathetic; if he could kick his own ass right now, he would.

His phone rings, and he's pleasantly surprised to see Sylvie's name displayed. Matt sits up a little to answer the call, fumbling the damn thing as he hits the answer button. "Hey," he greets, and promptly drops his phone to the ground. "Dammit!" Leaning over, he plucks it from the ground and pulls it to his ear. "Sylvie?"

"Yeah—hi," Sylvie replies.

It's good to hear her voice, the cadence somehow both familiar and new all at once. "Sorry, I dropped my phone. Let's try this again. Hello?"

Sylvie huffs out a low laugh. "Hey, Matt. It's Sylvie!" Her voice is warm and friendly, and he can almost hear the smile on her lips.

Matt grins into the night air, and his bad mood begins to recede. "How are you? How's your face?"

"Eh, still pretty evident that I got punched, but at least it doesn't hurt as much anymore."

A spike of anger prickles up his spine at the thought of her taking a fist to the face while she was just trying to do her job. They put their lives on the line every shift to help others. She's tough, and he knows she'll heal soon enough. He's still pissed about it though. "Well, it'll be good to have you back soon. Foster hates anyone but you and Kidd on ambo."

She laughs again. "Oh, I've already heard about the temp from last shift. The nicest thing Foster had to say about him was, _iAt least he wasn't Chad!_/i"

Matt barks out a laugh. "Yeah, Chad really was the worst." He lifts his glass and drains the rest of his whiskey. "You're damn good at your job, Sylvie. We're lucky to have you."

"Well, gosh—this phone call is a shot in the arm for my ego. I'll have to call you more often if this is the standard treatment."

He's not typically comfortable with praise either, so he can understand her flip response. But she deserves to hear how competent and respected she is at 51. "You know you're a badass, Sylvie Brett. Take the compliment."

"Okay, I will," she murmurs. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"So, what's Matt Casey up to tonight?" she asks, changing the subject. He likes the sound of his full name rolling off her tongue.

"Currently freezing my ass off on the roof and drinking whiskey."

Sylvie scoffs, and he can picture that pinched line she gets between her eyebrows when she's confused. "It's 30 degrees outside! Why are you on the roof?"

He debates telling her the reason, but she's well aware of all the players involved. "Truth?" he asks.

"Always," she counters.

"Severide and Kidd are having sex and I don't want to listen."

Infectious laughter erupts on the line. "Oh, my god! From what Stella shares with me, it sounds like their sex life is rather...active.

"Like rabbits," he says dryly. Sylvie straight up cackles, and he can't help but laugh along with her at the absurdity of this conversation.

"If it makes you feel any better, I overheard Joe and Chloe earlier, too. Then they wanted me to watch a movie with them. Hard no from me after hearing your sex noises!"

The baser corner of his mind wonders—for a split second—what kind of noises Sylvie makes in bed. i_Jesus Christ_./i He blames the whiskey and the cold for being an asshole.

Time to change the subject.

"I need to move out of this apartment. 'M gettin' too old for roommates." She'd helped him once before; maybe she'd take pity and help him again. "Would you consider helping me look—"

"Yes!" she exclaims, cutting him off. "I'll update my spreadsheets from when I helped you last time. I saw some great listings earlier today on Zillow!"

He's not surprised. From what he knows, she's obsessed with HGTV—her words—and constantly looking at available real estate during downtime around the station. It's cute, really. i_She's_/i cute. "You're a delightful nerd, Brett."

"I take that as a compliment."

Matt chuckles. "It was meant as one." Sylvie yawns, and he knows it's time to wrap this up. He honestly can't take much more of sitting in the cold anyway. Talking to her, however, has been the highlight of his evening. "I guess I should let you get some rest."

Sylvie lets out a little i_hmm_/i in response. "Yeah, I am sleepy and already cozy in my bed."

Despite the internal warning not to, his dumbass brain immediately tries to imagine Sylvie lying in bed. He's screwed. "Sleep well, Sylvie."

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad I called. Goodnight," she says softly, before ending the call.

So is he.

* * *

A small red gift bag appears on his desk midway through the next shift. It's sitting atop a blue file folder with a sticky note attached. There's no guessing who it's from. He's read enough shift reports to immediately recognize Sylvie's neat handwriting.

_iA list of potentials to get you started. In the meantime, maybe this gift will help. :) _

_-S_

_P.S. Obviously I'm going with you to see these places. Don't spoil my fun!/i_

Matt smiles as he reads the note again. He'd already planned on asking her to tag along to see potential apartments, but it's nice knowing she wants to. Picking up the bag, he pulls away the tissue paper. Inside is a dozen or so packs of yellow Sound Blocker ear plugs. He huffs out a laugh and opens up the folder, finding a spreadsheet of available listings color-coded by neighborhood.

A delightful nerd indeed.


	2. Home

_Hold on, to me as we go_

_As we roll down this unfamiliar road_

_And although this wave is stringing us along_

_Just know you're not alone_

_'Cause I'm going to make this place your home_

_-"Home" by Phillip Phillips_

* * *

"Thanks, we're going to keep looking." Matt nods at the super—though slumlord seems more appropriate—and strides quickly from the apartment. He hears Sylvie running down the stairs towards the exit. It's the third bust of the day, each apartment more disgusting than the last.

This one? This one wins the prize for being the absolute worst.

"Oh my god!" she cries, eyes wide, as soon as he pushes through the exterior door. "That place gave me the heebie jeebies! So _nasty_!" she adds, complete with a dramatic, full body shudder.

They deal with _a lot _of disgusting and gruesome scenes every day, but it's part of the job and they're usually able to compartmentalize and stay focused. Being blindsided with a roach motel on their day off is unpleasant, to say the least. "I don't know what the hell that smell was, but it will haunt me."

"Ugh, don't remind me!" Sylvie gags and pulls the file folder with her spreadsheet from her oversized purse. "It should be a crime to advertise that place as _icharming/i_. With a red pen, she forcefully crosses through the listing on the paper.

"Maybe the cockroaches have winning personalities," he deadpans with a casual shrug. Sylvie lunges for him and he jumps back to avoid being smacked in the chest with her blue file folder. "Easy!" he chuckles.

Sylvie heaves a defeated sigh, and shoots him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Matt. This search is off to a terrible start."

While it's true that the apartments they've seen so far weren't panning out, he isn't sorry to spend the day with her. Quite the opposite, if he's being honest. "Nah, don't sweat it. Not your fault these apartments relied on false advertising to lure in potential renters. What's next on the list?"

"Really?" she asks, brows arched. "Are you sure you don't want to just pack it in and call it quits for the day?"

An easy smile steals across his face. "Why? Tired of hanging out with me already, Brett?"

Sylvie pulls a scrunched face and shrugs her shoulders. "Well, gosh, this is awkward—was I really being that transparent? I thought I was being subtle."

For a split second she nearly has him fooled. Then he notices the mischief dancing in her eyes as a slow grin curves over her mouth, and he realizes that she's fucking with him. "Wiseass!"

Her bright laughter fills the air around them, and the sound warms a path through his chest. There's an easy comfort in spending time together that he hasn't had with someone in a long time.

He likes it.

"Come on," she starts, tugging gently on the sleeve of his jacket, "it's only a few blocks. Let's walk and enjoy the weather while we still can."

* * *

To Sylvie, it's the perfect fall day in Chicago. Crystal blue skies overhead. Brilliant reds and vibrant golds on leaves hitting their gorgeous peak for the season. There's just enough chill in the air to tuck hands inside coat pockets, but not enough bite to make her dread the bitter winter that approaches. Days like this remind her of football games and hayrides, bowls of chili and mugs of hot apple cider, cozy sweaters and worn leather boots.

She walks in step beside Matt, enjoying the companionable silence and the ambient city noises that surround them. A couple holding hands and sharing a secret smile passes in the opposite direction. They're cute and seem happy to be lost in one another. Seeing them leaves Sylvie feeling a bit wistful, wondering when she'll find someone to hold hands with while running errands and strolling through the city.

Sparing a glance at Matt, she wonders, for a fleeting moment, what it might feel like if he were the one to casually take her hand, to press his palm against hers and lace their fingers together.

She's distracted enough by her daydream that she doesn't notice the group of teenagers on those stupid Lime scooters until Matt's arm slips around her waist and pulls her safely out of the way as they go screaming by.

"Whoa—you okay?" Matt asks, concern lacing his words. "You were a million miles away just now."

With one broad hand still settled firmly on her waist and sparks skittering beneath her skin, she no longer has to wonder if holding his hand would feel nice. No, she knows damn well anywhere he touches would be amazing. Abruptly halting those dangerously wandering thoughts, she clears her throat and gently extracts herself from his grasp.

"I'm fine," she admits, sheepishly. "I got caught up leaf peeping."

Matt snorts out a laugh, one brow ticking up in question. "Leaf what now?"

Sylvie smiles. "Leaf peeping. You know, when people flock to areas with beautiful fall foliage and admire the colors." She gestures awkwardly to the copse of trees across the street. "Fall is my favorite."

It's not a lie. She _was_ caught up waxing poetic about autumn in her head. And imagining holding hands with the man walking next to her. Basically, she's a Taylor Swift song in human form.

A grip. She needs to get one.

"Leaf peeping," Matt says again, slowly drawing out the syllables, like it's a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Leaf peeping. Leaf peeping."

Sylvie giggles. "Will you stop saying _leaf peeping!_"

Matt's lips twitch into a smirk, clearly attempting to stifle whatever reply he has on the tip of his tongue. A second later his head falls back and he bursts out laughing.

"What is so damn funny?" she asks, which only spurs additional laughter. His face is open and bright, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples flashing. He's so serious most of the time; seeing him cut loose fills a little corner of her heart with happiness. He deserves that. Even if, she knows, he's laughing at her expense.

She waits impatiently for him to compose himself, arms folded across her chest. The laughter finally subsides, but the amusement lighting his face is plain as day. "Care to fill me in on the joke?"

"It sounds kinda dirty, don't you think?" he asks, an impish grin in place. "Leaf peeping—almost sounds like weird fetish or something." He starts to laugh again, but scrubs a hand over his mouth to squash another fit.

Sylvie chokes back her own laughter and smacks him on the shoulder. "Don't you dare taint my beautiful fall memories with your filthy mind, Matt Casey!"

Matt holds up his hands. "Sorry. I'll try and control myself." They resume their walk towards the next apartment. "Tell me one of your favorites," he says once the light changes and they cross the street.

Confused, she inclines her head and purses her lips. "One of my favorite what?"

"Memories," he replies easily. "Why do you love fall so much?"

"Oh." The thoughtfulness of his question catches her pleasantly off guard. "Um—well, my parents and I used to go on a weekend camping trip every fall, and I looked forward to it every year. My favorite spot was Brown County State Park in southern Indiana. It's absolutely stunning in the fall. Great for—admirers of autumnal color," she adds, pointedly avoiding the newly taboo term _l__eaf peepers._

Matt's answering grin is lightning quick, but to his credit he doesn't laugh or offer further comment so she continues.

"I loved fishing with my dad, going on hikes as a family. Sometimes we'd rent bikes or go horseback riding. And before we left to drive home, we'd stop for lunch in this adorable little town called Nashville—Indiana, not Tennessee, obviously," she adds with a quiet laugh. "We'd buy a new handmade ornament for our Christmas tree from our favorite shop. And despite eating my weight in s'mores during the trip, I'd always sweet talk my dad into buying me hot chocolate."

"That sounds like a wonderful family trip," Matt says earnestly.

"It was," she replies, smiling at the memory that now feels bittersweet in her chest. Her relationship with her parents hasn't been the same since she left Fowlerton the first time. It became further strained when she broke up with Kyle and left town again. They're good people. They love her, and she loves them; but they've never understood her need for a life outside their small town limits.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks quietly, concern etching his face.

Sylvie nods and swallows the newly formed lump in her throat. "I am. It's just—a story for another day."

Matt spots something over her shoulder and holds up a finger. "Stay here, I'll be right back." Quickly looking both ways, he jogs across the street, disappearing from view behind a parked box truck.

He returns a few minutes later, crossing the street towards her holding two large paper cups. "What's this?" Sylvie asks as he hands one to her.

"Hot chocolate." A bashful smile turns up the corners of his mouth. "I—I guessed yes on whipped cream for you," he tells her.

"You guessed correctly," she smiles, feeling the color bloom in her cheeks. "This was really sweet of you, Matt. Thanks."

Matt holds out his cup, and maintains eye contact as he toasts, "To making fall memories. Old and new."

A warm, fuzzy feeling starts in her toes and works its way north, settling in her belly. Sylvie guesses it's the crush she has on Matt Casey growing three sizes. "I'll drink to that," she says brightly, and taps her cup to his.

* * *

Matt can tell from the lobby alone that this next apartment will be the best one they've seen, hands down. Not that the competition was tough, but this one is in a newer highrise, so everything is clean and updated. And reading the specs on the sheet the leasing agent handed him when they arrived, spacious for Chicago standards.

"There's a state-of-the-art fitness center open 24 hours a day for our residents," the leasing agent, Barb, informs them in the elevator. "Rooftop pool, movie room, onsite barista, and every unit has a full size washer and dryer."

The elevator dings on the 15th floor and the doors are whisper quiet upon opening. Sylvie nudges him with her elbow as they step off, and mouths the word _fancy_. His boots sink into the plush, immaculate carpeting in the hallway and he nods in agreement. This building _i__s_ fancy. Maybe a little too much.

Barb unlocks the door and they follow her inside. Sylvie gasps instantly. "Look at that view, Matt!"

Floor-to-ceiling windows line most of the exterior wall showcasing a spectacular view of the city outside. Dark oak floors gleam throughout the open floor plan, and to his right, the largest kitchen he's seen in an apartment sparkles in white and chrome. It's impressive.

Sylvie wanders through the other rooms to explore while Matt lets Barb give him the tour. He looks down at the spec sheet again while she talks about all the building has to offer. The rent on this place is expensive. He can afford it, but just because he can doesn't mean he wants to.

"Matt!" Sylvie exclaims, popping into the doorway of the master bedroom, face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You've got to come see this! Oh my God!" She actually squeals a little as she disappears out of view again.

Barb chuckles beside him. "I believe your girlfriend just discovered the closet," she says knowingly.

"Oh—um, she's not my—" Matt starts. The word _girlfriend_ doesn't bother him the way it maybe should.

"Matt! Get in here!" Sylvie calls again.

"Yep, coming," he calls back. He doesn't care for the way Barb laughs as he walks into the other room.

As Barb predicted, he finds an awestruck Sylvie in the huge walk-in closet, running reverent fingertips along the built-in shelves. "You beckoned?" he teases.

"I know I'm embarrassing myself right now, but I truly don't care. This closet is bigger than the bedroom of my first apartment." She twirls in a circle, arms outstretched, to emphasize her point. "I want to marry this closet."

Matt laughs at that. "You're ridiculous," he says. And adorable. But those words stay in his mouth.

"Whatever. I'm awesome, and so is this closet. Admit it."

"Hard to argue either point," he replies, and earns a winning smile in return.

Matt walks out to inspect the bedroom and ensuite bath. Everything is sleek and modern. Pristine. Fixtures and amenities that he's given to clients on jobs over the years. There's nothing for him to fix here. It's the definition of turnkey. And despite all the space in this apartment, he's uncomfortable, like the walls are closing in and his collar is suddenly too tight.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Sylvie asks, shaking him from his thoughts.

He scrubs a hand over his jaw, giving one last look to the bathroom before turning to face her. "Think about what?"

Sylvie gestures around the room. "This place isn't you," she says simply.

She's right—it isn't. But he's curious why she thinks so, too. "Why do you say that?"

Her shoulders lift carelessly. "It's not comfortable here. It's beautiful, certainly, and my stance on that closet is unwavering," she adds with a laugh. "But it lacks charm—character. It's too polished to settle in and feel like your home."

Maybe he should find it unnerving that she hit the bullseye with that assessment, almost like she was walking around in his head moments ago. But he doesn't. If anything, there's a rush associated in finding out that she knows him better than he thought.

"I completely agree. Though now you've piqued my curiosity—what kind of place do you think fits me?" Nerves settle low in his gut, the anticipation of what her answer will be pushing him to the edge of his proverbial seat.

Sylvie's quiet for a moment, her brows drawn together in thoughtful consideration. "Okay," she starts, then hesitates. "Truth?"

One corner of his mouth twitches up. The whole _truth_ bit is quickly becoming their thing. He hopes it continues. "Always."

She takes a step closer to him, slipping her hands into the pocket of her plaid coat, blue eyes locking onto his. "A house. I think you're tired of paying rent, and you'd rather own house in order to build equity. You want a place that you can fix up and make your own. This place bugs you because there's nothing for you to do here."

The rush from moments before intensifies with the accuracy of every word that just came out of her mouth. It manifests in the form of wry laugh in a vain attempt to maintain his cool. "Well, when you're right, you're right."

Sylvie gifts him with a beaming smile. "I do enjoy being right," she teases. "Tell you what, if you're not sick of me yet, why don't we grab a couple beers and split a pizza. We can talk houses."

Matt has nowhere else to be, and prolonging this day with Sylvie sounds great to him. He gestures to the door. "Lead the way."

Barb is waiting by the front door with a shit-eating grin. "What did you decide?" she asks, though Matt knows good and damn well she was eavesdropping on their conversation.

"The closet made me weep, Barb," Sylvie answers. "It's perfection. But this place isn't for us—him. Matt. He's going to keep looking. Thanks for your time." She hurries out of the apartment with a blush on her cheeks.

Matt grins and follows.


	3. Rumor

_There's a rumor going 'round about me and you_

_Stirring up our little town the last week or two_

_-"Rumor" by Lee Brice _

* * *

Sylvie drops down into the empty seat beside him during breakfast the next shift and unceremoniously shoves her iPad in his face. "What about this one?" she asks, scrolling quickly through the pictures of an available house listing while his mouth is full of pancakes. The delightfully nerdy side of Brett is in full effect today, and he can't say he minds at all.

He swallows his food and turns toward her with raised brows and an amused smirk. "Morning to you, too, Brett," Matt says dryly, reaching for his coffee mug.

Chagrined, Sylvie sets the iPad on the table, smooths back the stray tendril of blonde hair that is perpetually falling in her eyes, and flashes him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I got excited. Good morning, Casey," she says warmly. "How are the pancakes? Ritter didn't cook them, did he?"

A bark of laughter escapes before he can stop himself. "Nope. Gallo cooked, so these are delicious," he answers. "Better grab 'em before they're gone or the bell goes off."

"Gallo pancakes beat yogurt any day," she says with a friendly smile. "Besides, I'm starving. Foster here absolutely kicked my butt this morning at spin class. She's a drill sergeant, I swear!"

Foster looks up from her phone with a shit-eating grin on her face. "You're welcome for the hot ass and cardiovascular health, Brett!"

Brett takes the comment in stride and laughs, hopping up from her seat to get food. Matt purposely focuses on his pancakes so his mind doesn't linger too long on the _hot ass_ comment. Though Sylvie's ass has definitely not escaped his notice as of late. It is, uh...nice. He feels the weight of Foster's scrutinizing stare from across the table, which is becoming something of a regular occurrence around the station. Though he can't figure out the reason why. He kind of hates it.

Matt spears another forkful of pancakes with more force than is necessary, and glances coolly at her. "Something I can help you with, Foster?"

Foster merely shrugs, an enigmatic expression firmly in place as she turns her attention back to her phone. "Nope. I'm all set, Captain."

Sylvie returns with a short stack on her plate and aims an expectant look at him the moment she sits back down. "Did you look at the pictures of the house yet?"

He huffs out a breath, the corners of his mouth ticking upward. "You're relentless today," Matt replies, and polishes off the last bite of his breakfast before pushing his plate away.

"I know I'm being annoying. Just trust me on this one," she insists, digging into her own stack of pancakes. Her eyes fall closed reverently and she moans around the fork in her mouth. "God, these are amazing."

Matt scoops up the iPad immediately and gives his full attention to the pictures on the screen so he can ignore the little punch of lust in his gut after hearing Sylvie moaning over pancakes. She's fucking killing him and he's pretty goddamn certain she has no clue about it. Maybe that's for the best.

Understanding hits him immediately why Sylvie was so eager to show this house to him. It's a charming, old brick bungalow on a corner lot with more square footage than he expects for the price. There's an actual yard that appears slightly bigger than the typical postage stamp-sized yards found in Chicago neighborhoods—though it could be a deceptive camera angle—and a detached two-car garage. The interior is horribly outdated, but the contractor side of him only sees potential. The pull to see this house in person is strong.

Sylvie bumps her elbow against his. "Well?"

Matt keeps his eyes on the screen and his voice neutral when he answers, "It needs work."

"It's a total fixer," she agrees, reaching into his space to swipe through pictures until she settles on the kitchen. "You could knock out that wall and practically double the size of the kitchen. Give it an open concept feel."

She's absolutely right; he can envision it clearly. He flips through to the pictures of the basement. "And this could be finished for additional living space, but this part here could be a workshop." The prospect of having a workshop in his very own house to store his tools sends excitement coursing through his veins.

"Oh my god, you're right!" Sylvie exclaims. "You wouldn't have to rent a workspace anymore."

"Can someone please tell me what's happening right now?" Ritter asks from his seat at the end of the table.

Mouch spares a glance over the top of his newspaper. "Keep up, Ritter. Brett's helping Casey find a house and they're rapidly turning into the blond version of Chip and Joanna."

"Aren't they that married couple with a gaggle of kids who renovates houses on HGTV?" Gallo volleys from the kitchen.

"Well done, Candidate!" Mouch says proudly, and laughter erupts around the table.

Matt feels like handing out window washing duty to every single one of them just to be a dick, but he knows this is how it goes with his 51 family. Some days you're in on the joke and some days you are the joke.

Sylvie stands up from the table with her empty plate. "Y'all are the biggest bunch of yentas on the face of the planet!"

The alarm sounds for ambulance 61, sending Brett and Foster running. Matt takes the opportunity to make his escape and call the real estate agent about the house.

* * *

Sylvie's mid-belt of a power ballad when Foster unceremoniously turns off the radio in the ambo and hits her with a pointed, "What's going on with you and Casey?"

It's the same question Sylvie's asked herself dozens of times over the last couple of weeks. One she doesn't have an answer for. Her heart beats a little bit faster, the way it always does, at the mere thought of progressing past _just friends _with Matt Casey. But that's what they are. They're friends. Friends who have been spending a lot of free time together recently looking at real estate and usually sharing a meal before parting ways at the end of the day.

"First of all, rude! I was enjoying that performance. Secondly, I don't know," Sylvie answers honestly. She knows that her crush isn't showing any signs of slowing down, and the more time they spend alone together, the more she likes him. Sometimes she catches a lingering look from him that suggests _maybe_ he feels more than friendship for her, but it usually passes so quickly that she's left wondering if it was all just wishful thinking on her behalf.

"Come on, seriously?" Foster replies, her face incredulous. "Did you even hear yourselves at breakfast today?"

"What?" she asks with an innocent shrug. "He's house hunting and I'm helping. That's what friends do!"

Foster slows to a stop at a red light and casts a withering look in her direction that screams _get real._ "And is he repaying you for all this _friendship_ with orgasms yet or no?"

Sylvie chokes on her coffee, coughing and spitting it down the front of her shirt. "Emily!" she scolds, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth. Admittedly, it's been far too long since she's had an orgasm that wasn't battery operated. Her skin grows warm and tight at the thought of Matt providing them for her.

"Sylvie," Emily mocks. "I can't believe you two are still in this weird limbo from last year. And, girl, do not bring up Kyle again as an excuse."

Exasperated, Sylvie throws up her hands. "I have a crush on him, okay? Is that what you want to hear?" Admitting that truth out loud to her friend alleviates some of the stress she's been carrying around trying to conceal her feelings.

Foster's smile is smug as she takes the next right. "It's a start. Denial is a shitty place to live."

"It _is_ complicated though," she insists, which is the cold hard truth. There's a lot of messy history there with Gabby and Antonio, and yes, even Kyle. She and Matt have been friends for years, though they've certainly grown much closer lately. The thought of messing up that friendship over her one-sided crush makes her stomach twist sourly.

"Please know that what I'm about to say comes from a place of love and that I'm always rooting for you and your happiness." Foster trails off as she pulls the rig into the bay at 51, killing the engine. Sylvie raises her eyebrows expectantly. "You two are the damn dumbest smart people in Chicago!"

Sylvie scoffs, lips curling into a petulant frown. "Gee, thanks!"

"All I'm saying is you shouldn't put your happiness on the backburner out of fear or some misplaced sense of loyalty to relationships that ended ages ago. Life's too short!"

Foster makes some valid points, but Sylvie's still unsure. "I'll think about it," she promises, and that's the best she can currently offer.

"Think about boning him already, would ya? You really need to clear the cobwebs out of your vagina! I'm gonna go grab a quick sandwich before we inventory supplies." With that, she hops out of the rig, leaving Sylvie with her jaw hanging open.

* * *

"I'll call Severide and give OFI a heads up on the South Street building," Matt says with a nod. Sensing this meeting is all but wrapped up, he pushes to his feet in Boden's office. However, Boden doesn't reach for his reading glasses the way he always does when he's about to dive back into paperwork. Instead he leans back in his chair, fixing Casey with an appraising stare. "Need something else, Chief?"

"How's the apartment hunt coming along?" Chief Boden asks.

Matt grins, tucking the file folder under his arm. "The 51 rumor mill is running a little slow these days. I'm actually looking to buy a house."

Surprise flashes over Boden's face, but a friendly smile quickly moves in. "Really? Good for you, Casey! What brought on that decision?"

"Felt like the adult thing to do," he answers with a self-deprecating laugh and a careless shrug of his shoulders. Truth is, the more he thinks about owning his own house, about fixing it up and making it a home, the more excited he becomes about the whole thing. He has Sylvie to thank for that. "Severide and Kidd need their own space and so do I. Time for this Chicago guy to put down some roots."

Boden reaches for his glasses then and slips them on. "Let me know when moving day is. The whole house will pitch in."

Matt smiles and points his finger, "I'm counting on it, Chief."

He pulls the door closed behind him and narrowly misses colliding into Kidd. "Ope, sorry," Matt says.

"There you are, Captain! I was looking for you," Kidd greets with a wry smile. He's learned to be suspicious of that expression on her face as it usually comes at his expense. "Kelly called while you were in with Chief. He said, and I quote, 'Tell Casey to answer his goddamn phone.'"

"I didn't hear it ring." His brows pinch together and he pats his pockets for his phone. "Guess I left my it in my locker this morning. Did he say what he wanted?"

Kidd shakes her head. "No, but if I had to guess, he misses his BFF. You haven't been spending much time at the apartment lately. Please call him so he'll stop pouting. Maybe go on a bro date or something."

Matt huffs an amused breath. "A bro date?" he asks skeptically.

"Well, whatever you two call it, then. I don't know. Figure it out!" With that, Kidd simply throws up her hands and walks away.

Picking up the pace to avoid having to engage in whatever Cruz and Mouch are arguing about in the common room, Matt continues the short trek to the locker room so he can call Severide back.

He rounds the corner and stops short, getting an eyeful of Sylvie in front of her locker, peeling the CFD t-shirt over her head. "Shit," he swears, because what else is there to do? "I—I'm so sorry!"

"Oh my god!" Sylvie cries, jumping like a startled cat. She somehow gets tangled up in her t-shirt with arms overhead before crashing into the bank of lockers. "Ow! Fuck!" she hisses as she yanks the offending garment off with seemingly excessive force in her scramble to cover up her chest.

Matt reaches out to steady her. "Are you okay?"

"Casey, turn around!" she squeaks, waving off his assistance as color floods into her face.

He immediately spins around and closes his eyes as though that's gonna help him forget the glimpse he's just received of her perky breasts covered by a simple white cotton bra. Or the little cluster of freckles dotting her ribcage. It feels as though the universe is conspiring against him today. First hearing Sylvie's sexy groan at breakfast and now catching her without a shirt. "Brett, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here."

"It's okay," she answers, her voice a couple of octaves higher than normal. "I just spilled coffee on my shirt and needed to change."

Matt remains rooted to his spot, his back to her, eyes screwed shut. The last thing he wants or needs is to seem like a huge creep. To anyone, really, but especially Brett. He hears the soft rustle of fabric then the tell-tale clink of the metal locker closing.

She clears her throat. "It's safe to turn around now, Casey. Bound to happen once in a while in a co-ed locker room, yeah?"

"Right, yeah, of course," he says dumbly, slowly turning around. He feels the blush spread to the tops of his ears and he scrubs a hand over his face in a weak attempt to regain his composure. He's a captain, for Christ's sake, and he's behaving like a teenager seeing his first pair of boobs. It's pathetic. "Um—I have an appointment to view that house tomorrow. Do you want to come with me, or have I made things irreparably awkward between us?"

Much to his relief, she chuckles and a soft smile curls over her mouth. "I'll tag along. Just give me today to get over my embarrassment. Deal?"

Matt echoes her chuckle with one of his own. He could also use some time to get past this awkwardness. "Deal."

Sylvie grabs her coat and hat and hightails it from the locker room.

* * *

He grabs his phone and calls Severide back. Turns out the reason Severide was eagerly trying to reach him was to say that he managed to score a pair of tickets to a Blackhawks game tomorrow night. _On the glass_. Matt practically pops a boner from the news. For years they've dreamed of watching a game from front row seats, but a firefighter's salary didn't allow them the luxury of ever affording the price tag. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, he doesn't ask Severide how he lucked into those seats.

Matt fills him in on the South Street fire, then they shoot the shit for a while, the way they used to over cigars during downtime on shift.

He really misses having Severide at 51. Though considering the day Matt's having, maybe it's for the best that his friend doesn't have a front row seat.

* * *

Sylvie's so flustered when she gets back to the rig to inventory supplies that she keeps losing count and has to start over. Foster's thankfully still eating lunch, so she at least has a bit more time to compose herself before being subjected to any further questions or teasing about the state of things with Casey. She's awful with secrets, but she'd rather stick razor blades under her fingernails than have Foster and Kidd find out about the locker room.

She can't stop her brain from replaying the train wreck of her clumsily falling against the lockers with her damn shirt over her head and Matt bearing witness to the whole thing. If that had been a scene in a movie, she would have had to hide her face from secondhand embarrassment for the poor character. But her life isn't a movie and there's nothing secondhand about the head-to-toe embarrassment she's currently experiencing.

Her phone rings and for a moment she's grateful for the distraction. Then she sees it's her mom calling and thinks that maybe suffering through the embarrassment will be less painful. Quickly realizing that she's not being fair, she answers the call.

Hindsight, as always, is 20/20. Sylvie should have let the call go straight to voicemail, but instead she got treated to an all expenses paid guilt trip courtesy of her mother because she's on shift for Thanksgiving and can't go back to Fowlerton.

_"Who works on Thanksgiving, Sylvie?" her mom had asked. _

_"Lots of people. First responders, doctors, nurses—retail workers because commercialism reigns supreme."_

_"You don't have to be such a smart ass, Sylvie Anne!"_

It's not the first time they've engaged in a similar argument and Sylvie knows good and well it won't be the last. By now she's used to being a disappointment to her family.

"Let's go out tomorrow night," Sylvie says the moment Foster returns. "According to my mother, the CFD is selfish for having me work Thanksgiving. I could really use a drink or five."

"Count me in! Molly's?" Foster suggests.

Sylvie shakes her head. She wants something else. "Dancing! Then maybe Molly's."

Foster lights up at this news and holds her hand up for a high five. "Hell yes!"

* * *

Matt offers to pick her up the next afternoon so they can check out the house, but Sylvie texts back that she's out shopping and will meet him there instead. It seems straightforward enough, but he can't shake the feeling that things are weird between them now. He supposes he'll just have to wait and see.

He arrives early to scope out the neighborhood. It's a quiet, tree-lined street with minimal traffic, well-kept homes, and mostly tidy yards. Kids are outside whiling away their Saturday afternoon tossing a football and playing tag. There's an older couple taking a walk up one side of the street, and young woman jogging with a stroller down the other. It feels like the kind of place where everyone takes pride in their homes and looks out for their neighbors.

Matt parks his truck in front of the house and hops out. There's no sign of the realtor or Sylvie yet, so he takes advantage of inspecting the exterior of the property by himself before they arrive. The roof and gutters are in good shape, but a quick glance at the windows and he knows they will have to be replaced. Pulling a small notebook from his back pocket, he jots down everything that needs to be fixed or replaced, estimating the cost as he goes.

A car door closes followed a short beep of the vehicle locking. Matt looks over his shoulder and spots Sylvie walking up the drive. She grants him a tight smile and a small wave as she approaches. "Hey."

"Hey," he parrots, tucking his notebook back into his pocket, and his hands into the pockets of his coat. They stand there for a beat of awkward silence until Matt can't take it. "Are we okay? I know yesterday was—please tell me we're okay. I don't want things to be weird between us."

Sylvie's eyes flick down towards the ground, but when she looks back up again she meets his gaze head on for the first time since breakfast yesterday, and she nods. "We're good, Matt," she says, lips curving.

Matt's shoulders relax and he feels some of the tension drain away. "You're sure?" he asks, quirking one eyebrow.

"Do you need me pinky swear on it, Casey?" Sylvie asks, a playful lilt in her voice. She holds out her right hand, balling it into a fist with her pinky sticking up.

Grinning, Matt removes his right hand from his pocket and locks his pinky around hers. "This is my very first pinky swear," he admits.

Sylvie's pinky squeezes his a little tighter as a solemn expression clouds over her face. "The pinky swear is a time-honored and sacred tradition." She lets go of his hand and drops hers to the side, the solemnity giving way to a teasing grin. "Better now?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, the remaining tension dissipating. "I'm better now."

A shiny black Porsche pulls up to the house, and a man—presumably the listing agent—steps out of the car in a tailored navy suit and slicked back hair. He walks over to them with a grin that's too bright to be anywhere in the realm of genuine and gives Matt a cold fish handshake. "Nick Chambers, Prestige Realty. Get it sold quick with Nick!" he quips, and hands him a business card with the same stupid catchphrase printed on it. Matt despises him immediately.

"Matt Casey," he introduces himself. "This is Sylvie Brett." Quick with Nick shakes Sylvie's hand, then leads them to the front porch.

Sylvie casts a jeering look his way, holding up her hand, and mouthing _weak_ in reference to Nick's pathetic handshake. He smirks and his fondness for her ratchets up another notch.

Nick opens the front door and asks if they'd like him to give the tour or if they'd like to explore the house on their own first, which earns back a few of the points he lost during the introduction. "I'll let you know if we have any questions," Matt tells him.

"I'll step outside and make some calls. Take your time with the house," Nick says, and makes himself scarce, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Quick with Nick," Sylvie mutters under her breath with a quiet snort. "I bet that nickname is a big hit with the ladies. Dollars to donuts Quick with Nick is a two-pump chump!"

The insult is so unexpected, her delivery so dry and pitch perfect that Matt's jaw drops. Laughter sneaks up on him and has him doubled over a second later. "Sylvie Brett, that is the funniest damn thing I've ever heard you say," he says as soon as he's composed himself.

"Shh," she scolds playfully, though clearly pleased with herself. "He'll hear you. C'mon, let's see what this house has to offer."

The interior of the house hasn't seen any updates this century, however, it's obvious that the previous owners took good care of the place and kept it clean. Sure, it's dated, but at least it's not disgusting. Matt kneels down in a corner of the living room and pulls back the carpet to see if there's hardwood underneath. There is, and while the wood is badly in need of refinishing, it's in decent shape.

He continues his meticulous sweep of the first floor, going room to room and scribbling down more notes, while Sylvie _oohs_ and _aahs_ and chatters away about the charm and potential the house possesses.

"So if you buy this house," Sylvie starts, following him into the kitchen, "will you let me have a crack at the sledgehammer? Chip makes demo day look like a ton of fun!"

Matt shakes his head with a quiet chuckle as she somehow always manages to keep him on his toes. "Sure, you can wield the sledgehammer. Just promise me you won't try to Kool-Aid Man crash through the wall. Chip's fucking lucky he didn't break his neck!"

"Matt Casey, you dirty little liar! I _knew_ you watched that show!" Sylvie crows, jabbing her finger into his chest.

Well, shit. He just outed himself. "Yeah, yeah, keep that to yourself, will ya?"

They tour the rest of the house, and Matt continues his copious note taking. The longer he spends wandering around the place, the more he can see himself living here, renovating it, making it his home. He's looked at other houses, but none of them made his hands itch with the need to make it his own.

This house does.

He takes one last look around the living room before turning to face Sylvie. She stares up at him, brows arched, the question evident in her eyes. "I'm going to make an offer on this place."

Matt's just barely finished his sentence as Sylvie launches herself at him to wrap her arms around his neck in a tight hug. "This is so exciting, Matt! Congratulations!" she exclaims, her breath fanning out against his neck. He folds his arms around her back and hugs her close.

"I couldn't have done this without you," he says, holding on to her a moment longer. The front door opens and Quick with Nick walks in. Matt presses his lips close to her ear and whispers, "Play it cool, will you? I'm gonna talk the price down about $20k."

Sylvie pulls back and smiles knowingly. "I'll go wait outside."


	4. Drunk Girl

_She's bouncing like a pinball_

_Singing every word she never knew_

_Dancing with her eyes closed like she's the only one in the room_

_Her hair's a perfect mess, falling out of that dress_

_Take a drunk girl home_

— _Drunk Girl by Chris Janson _

* * *

From the moment Casey and Severide enter the United Center that night, the energy inside the building is palpable. Electric. A large portion of that can be attributed to their own giddy excitement radiating off them like a couple of kids on Christmas morning. Blackhawks fans of all ages begin filing into the seats creating a floor-to-ceiling sea of red, white, and black, both Casey and Severide sporting matching white Kane jerseys. They grab two overpriced beers and find their section, descending the stairs towards their _front row seats_. Sure, they've been to tons of games over the years, but Matt still finds it hard to believe that they're finally getting to see a game from their dream seats against the glass. He'd ask Severide to pinch him, but he's not down for the merciless teasing that would accompany saying something so lame out loud. However, Matt knows that his best friend is every bit as excited as he is.

"I think the air is different down here," Severide teases with a wide grin as he settles into his seat and sips his beer.

Glancing around, Matt spots the first baseman for the Cubs and a couple of Bears players seated near them. "Definitely richer," he replies dryly, casting a sideways glance at Kelly. "Thanks again for the invite, man. Stella wasn't interested?"

Kelly snorts. "Stella wasn't invited; not to these seats. She wouldn't appreciate them like you will."

"Oh, I'm definitely appreciating this experience," Matt says, tapping the rim of his cup against Severide's. Then he adds a deadpan, "I won't tell her you said that."

"Already did," Kelly chuckles. He takes a long sip of his beer, then sighs with an expression that signals he's trying to work up the nerve to say something he doesn't want to.

Experience has taught Matt to be suspicious of that look. He arches his brows. "What's with the face?"

"Stella made me promise to grill you about Brett, but seeing as it's almost time for the puck drop, I'll make this real quick. Is there anything goin' on between you and Brett that you wanna talk about?"

Amused, a smirk twitches over Matt's mouth. He greatly appreciates the out his friend carefully built into that question. "Nope."

Severide shrugs and holds up his beer in a conspiratorial toast. "Good enough for me. I asked; you answered. And I kept my promise to my girlfriend."

"Cheers to that."

Checking his phone, Severide grins down at the screen before showing it to Matt. "The ladies of 51 are hittin' the town tonight."

Matt gets a glimpse of the picture and makes a quick grab for Severide's phone in order to take a closer look. He stares at the group selfie Kidd had texted over of Kidd, Foster, and Brett, eyes immediately focusing on his favorite blonde. Sylvie's in the middle, arms wrapped around her friends, with a beaming smile on her pretty face. Her hair is wavy tonight, makeup more enhanced than usual which make her eyes look—

"You're so full of shit, Casey!" Severide crows, snatching his phone back.

Matt merely shrugs and takes a long, slow drink of his beer. "Ask better questions next time."

"Bottoms up, ladies!" Stella exclaims, clinking her shot glass first against Sylvie's then Foster's. All three women tap their full shot glasses in unison against the high top table they've congregated around before knocking back the liquor.

Music pulses around them as the tequila burns a warm trail down Sylvie's throat. She does her level best to keep from grimacing, quickly reaching for the lime resting on her cocktail napkin. Biting down on the fruit, the juice soothes away the sting. She smiles at her girlfriends, the lime still between her teeth, which earns the laughter she was seeking.

It's been too long since she's had a real night out with her friends that didn't include Molly's. While she adores that bar and all the people in it, tonight she just needs to dance it out.

"So," Foster begins, a sly smile curving over her mouth, "you tell Stella yet about your crush on Casey?"

"Emily!" Sylvie scolds, reaching across the table and smacking her friend none-too-gently on the arm. "What happens in Ambo 61 stays in Ambo 61!"

Stella barks out a sharp laugh, following it up with a pitying look and placating pat on the arm. It's so patronizing that Sylvie's reconsidering this whole girls night out business.

"As if I need to be told anything. I have eyes," Stella says.

Sylvie rolls her own at that, but that little self-conscious voice in the back of her mind grows louder. Is she making a fool of herself at 51? "Am I really that obvious?"

"Yes!" Stella and Emily reply in perfect harmony.

Stella swoops in and wraps a comforting arm around her shoulder adding, "But only because we're your best friends and know you so well."

"Exactly," Emily nods in agreement. "The guys are a bunch of dim bulbs—they wouldn't recognize a crush unless it was sitting on their face. Now that I mention it, 's not a bad tactic to try on Casey," she teases, wagging her eyebrows.

Sylvie picks up a discarded lime off the table and tosses it at Foster's head. "Oh. My. God. You need to stop!" she giggles. "You're not helping!"

"Well, Brett, agree to disagree. I think if you sat on Casey's face it would help things a lot. Back me up here, Kidd!"

Stella's face scrunches adorably as she holds up her hands. Laughing, she replies, "It would send a very clear message."

She hates her friends so hard for planting that debaucherous little seed in her mind. Now she has to work overtime to banish thoughts of riding Matt Casey's face. At least while she's in public.

Fuck. Her. Life.

"I'm not drunk enough to handle the two of you right now," she pouts, picking up the vodka soda she'd ordered prior to the shots. She gulps half of it down in record time and decides two (or three) can play the shock value game. "Casey saw me without my shirt last shift."

Stella nearly spits out her drink, whereas Emily resembles the damn Cheshire Cat. "Way to bury the lead, Brett!" Emily quickly motions for her to continue with the story.

They're in for huge disappointment, Sylvie thinks, and regales them with the whole embarrassing story in the locker room. "I even have a bruise on my elbow."

Foster blinks at her with genuine disappointment that's knocking on the door of disgust. Stella buries her face in her hands to hide the cacophonous laughter spilling out of her mouth. "I know. It's the worst," Sylvie says, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment.

"Truly the worst," Emily agrees. "My grandma has more game in her little finger than you two sad bastards. And she lives in a retirement community!"

Sylvie bursts out laughing, the insult rolling off her back. "Get it, Grandma Foster!"

"I don't know. Brett's got a lot of game going on tonight in those leather pants," Stella declares, giving Sylvie an exaggerated onceover. "Out here looking like badass Sandy after her makeover!"

Pleased with the compliment, Sylvie gives her friends a little shimmy of thanks and sways her hips in time with the music. "C'mon! Let's dance."

They wind up at Molly's after the hockey game. Matt was content to head home until Severide pointedly mentioned that he was meeting Stella after her night out with the girls and Matt should keep him company in the meantime. Seeing as one of the girls in question is Sylvie, it didn't take much arm twisting. So now he's at the end of the bar, nursing a beer and talking to Herrmann, all the while pretending he's not keeping a close eye on the front door and waiting for her to walk through it. He's pretty sure he's not fooling anyone, but least of all Severide. The regression towards his youth continues.

"You got to pound on the glass, right?" Herrmann implores, wiping down the bar. "Tell me you pounded on the glass!"

Matt shares an amused glance with Severide and feigns the appropriate amount of disrespect Herrmann's comment deserves. "What kind of hockey fans would we be otherwise, Herrmann?"

"Atta boy," he nods, a proud gleam in his eye. "I knew you wouldn't let me down!"

There's a ruckus at the entrance, and Matt turns around to investigate the cause. Foster breezes into the joint laughing hysterically, followed closely by Kidd. She stops to hold the door open, motioning with her hand to someone—presumably Sylvie—outside. "Brett, seriously, girlfriend—you don't have to fill out a damn Yelp review for the Lyft driver! Get your ass inside already!" Matt leans back against the bar, watching in amusement at the scene unfolding before him. At least until Kidd spots him and begins snapping her fingers at him like a dog she's trying to make heel. "Casey, get over here and help!"

"What in the world are you typing?" Kidd asks Sylvie just as Matt reaches the door.

Matt peers outside to find Sylvie in the middle of the sidewalk, brow furrowed deeply in concentration, lips pursed, and staring down at her phone with one eye open while her thumbs fumble slowly against the screen. He recognizes a drunk Sylvie Brett when he sees one. And this one is all caps and underlined drunk!

"Played Britney by request," she mumbles slowly, continuing to tap away. "Had mints. Told...dad...jokes. Submit! See, Stella, it only takes a second to be nice." She manages, with great effort, to shove her phone into the tiny purse she's carrying.

"I found Casey," Kidd tells her in a sing-song voice, dangling him as some sort of an incentive the way you would a child. He tries not to read too much into that.

Sylvie perks up at the sound of his name. "Where?" she asks, shoving the hair out of her face and looking around the empty sidewalk for him.

"In here, you delightful drunk ass!" Kidd laughs. "Casey, you gonna help me with this or stand around with your thumb up your ass all night?"

He knows a drunk Kidd when he sees one, too, and he's not about to start arguing. Chuckling, he moves further into the doorway to be visible to Sylvie. "Hey, Brett," he calls with an easy grin, which widens after Sylvie's head slowly turns towards the sound of his voice and her eyes finally land on him.

A smile teases its way slowly across her face and she enthusiastically holds out both arms and points her index fingers at him. "There you are, Matt Casey!" Waving hands replace pointing fingers as she greets, "Hiiii!"

Matt laughs again. "Hi!"

"I'mma go find my man," Kidd announces. "Brett, you hang with Casey, okay?"

Sylvie gives a double thumbs up. "You got it, dude!"

They both snort at her ridiculous Michelle Tanner impression, then Stella pats him on the shoulder with a knowing smirk that's about as subtle as an exploding grenade. "Have fun, kids!" she orders, before slinking back inside to find Severide.

"Bye!" Sylvie waves, open and sweet.

Impossibly charmed by this adorable woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk, Matt waves for her to come closer. "Let's get inside where it's warm, Sylvie."

"Oh, good idea!" she exclaims, as though the thought never occurred to her. "It IS cold out here!"

She takes hurried, shuffling steps across the sidewalk, high heels clacking staccato on the pavement, and bounds up the stairs towards the door. Her toe catches on the threshold, and she careens forward into the bar, arms flailing in the process. Thankful for his quick reflexes, she never comes close to hitting the ground. Instead she's half draped over the arm he's hooked around her waist, feet hovering the floor, laughing her ass off.

A chorus of answering laughter erupts nearby and he spies Kidd and Foster bent over and clutching their sides at their friend's near fall. "Jesus, Brett!" Foster chokes out. "Are you okay?"

Matt hoists a giggling Sylvie upright and sets her back on her feet. She spins around, grabbing hold of his arms and shakes the hair out of her face. "You caught me," she says, grinning up at him like he's some kind of hero, and squeezes his biceps firmly. He doesn't hate that gleam of appreciation in her eyes, but he does hate that it's happening while she's three sheets to the wind.

"Glad I could help," he replies evenly, keeping his hands firmly at his sides. The urge to touch is there, of course, but he's not a fucking asshole who takes advantage of the impaired. He clears his throat and smiles. "You tried to keep pace with Foster tonight, didn't you?"

This sparks more drunk laughter from Sylvie. Head lolled back, eyes scrunched, big, bright laughter. It lasts a few seconds, then she stops on a dime, using his body to steady herself on wobbly feet. Her heels help bridge the usual height difference between them, so when she leans further into his space her mouth is dangerously too close to his. "I have to tell you something," she says, her tone matching the sudden seriousness in her eyes.

Matt swallows down the nervous lump in his throat. There are far too many sets of prying eyes watching all this go down for his liking. They should mind their own goddamn business, but he knows good and well there's no chance of that happening. Not with this nosy crew of friends. "What's that?" he asks cautiously.

Sylvie straightens further, inches closer still to his face, and attempts her most sober expression. It's a total failure, that attempt, but somehow still really damn cute on her. Most things are, if he's being honest.

"I DID try to keep pace with Foster tonight," she confesses, as though he hadn't just asked, and instead revealing a closely guarded secret. She holds her finger to her lips. "Shh! Don't tell anyone!" Snickering, she spins away from him, making a beeline for her friends at the bar.

Chuckling under his breath, Matt turns to follow, stopping dead in his tracks while Sylvie shrugs out of her long winter coat, revealing the outfit beneath. Black leather pants paired with a tight, long sleeve black bodysuit that he finds sexy as hell on her lithe, fit body. Then she turns to drop her coat on an empty barstool and Matt feels all the oxygen get sucked out of the bar. It's a scoop back shirt that dips so low it's practically at her waistband, and on her back is intricate criss-cross of red straps from the bra she's wearing underneath. _Fuck. _She looks unbelievable!

"Close your mouth, you're catching flies," Severide mocks, strolling over and handing Matt the beer he'd left sitting on the bar.

"Oh, shut up," Matt grouses, accepting the drink. His eyes follow her across the bar as she and Kidd and Foster skip off towards the restroom. He's definitely not the only one paying attention either. A group of college guys wearing matching fraternity letters on their t-shirts nearly fall off their stools when they walk by. Matt's jaw clenches.

Severide huffs out a wry laugh beside him. "Yeah, you've got nothin' to say about Brett."

Matt glances sideways at his friend and keeps his mouth firmly shut. He doesn't want to get into it. Not here. Not now. So he takes a slow pull from the bottle, and keeps a watchful eye out for his friends.

"She looks good," Severide says, matter-of-fact.

Sighing, Matt lifts the bottle to his lips again. "Yeah." He takes another sip, swallowing hard. "Yeah, she really does."

"You're allowed to like her, Casey. She's pretty damn great!"

She is great. And he does like her. But he's still on the fence about whether or not that's a good thing. In typical Matt Casey fashion, he shoves down his feelings and ignores them. "I don't want to talk about it."

Severide snorts. "Big fuckin' shock there. You're gonna get an ulcer one of these days from holding all that shit inside."

Matt barks out a laugh. "That's rich coming from you."

"Hey, I'm way better now." Severide looks over Matt's shoulder and smiles, nodding once across the bar. Matt glances back and sees Sylvie, Kidd, and Foster approaching. "Stella makes me better."

"Well, cheers," Matt says with a genuine smile. "I'm happy for you."

Sylvie gets stopped by the table of frat guys and Matt keeps both eyes glued there. He knows she's an adult and can talk to whomever she pleases, but she's also drunk and men are fucking assholes. No way is he taking a chance that some dickbag tries something with her. He'll beat everyone's ass into the middle of next week if they so much as look at her sideways. She laughs at whatever one of them says, and hands out high fives to the whole table. With a wave over her shoulder, she moseys away from the group, making her way back towards him.

"What was that about?" Severide asks the ladies when they rejoin the group.

"Hi, Severide," Sylvie beams, waving enthusiastically. "They said I reminded them of Sandy from _Grease_!"

"Hey, I said the same thing earlier," Stella chimes in, wrapping an arm around Severide's waist.

A shit-eating grin steals across Severide's mouth. "You are giving off a real Olivia Newton-John vibe tonight, Brett. Don't you think, Casey?"

Fuck Severide and his damn memory. Matt mentioned one night while they were drinking—years and years ago—that he'd had a huge crush on Olivia Newton-John growing up. He never thought it would come back to embarrass him like this. He mouths _I hate you_ to him before tossing Sylvie a half smile and nod.

Sylvie ambles towards Severide and wraps him in a big hug, resting her head against his chest. "Uh, what's this for?" he asks.

"Thank you for loving my friend so much!" she answers, gently patting his arm. "And for keeping her satisfied sexually. She's very satisfied and I think you two are the best!"

Everyone laughs; it's too ridiculous not to.

"It's my pleasure, believe me," Severide says.

Sylvie proceeds to wrap an arm around Stella and Foster at the same time. "I love you both. Tonight has been so much fun. And I'm sorry I got us kicked out of that club."

"You got kicked out?" Severide asks.

Matt's dying of curiosity now. "For what?"

"Brett attempted to reenact Julia Stiles' dancing scene from _10 Things I Hate About You_. The crowd loved it, but the bouncer frowned upon her table top dancing," Foster informs them.

Surprised, Matt laughs, shaking his head. "Didn't know you had it in you, Brett."

Sylvie shrugs. "Biggie was on," she answers simply. "It's what you do."

Foster pulls out her phone. "Here, I got it on video."

"It was amazing!" Stella adds. "Girlfriend worked those pants so hard dancing she nearly gave everyone whiplash."

Matt nearly chokes on his beer. Severide claps him hard on the back as they gather around Foster's phone to watch. Irritated, he shoves Severide's hand away; he's about two seconds from punching his best friend in the dick.

The video is kind of dark, but it's not hard to make sense of what's happening. Sylvie's on a table top in her black leather pants-wearing glory, dancing for all she's worth beneath the strobing neon lights to "Hypnotize" with a crowd of people cheering her on. Internally, his mood sours. He was already having a hard enough time trying to figure out how to deal with this crush on Sylvie. And that was before he knew she could move her body like that. It's not something he's likely to forget any time soon. Jesus Christ.

He's so fucked.

"C'mon," Stella says, tugging on Severide's arm, "I'll let you buy me a drink before you take me back to my place. See you guys later."

"I'm leaving, too," Foster tells Sylvie, pulling her in for another hug.

"No! Where are you going?"

"To see a girl about an orgasm," she replies.

Sylvie laughs. "Jealous! Have fun and be safe."

Foster nods. "I will." She turns her gaze to him after that. "Casey, can you make sure she gets home okay?"

Obviously he will. He doesn't trust rideshares much, and over his dead body would he put Sylvie in one in her drunken state. "Yeah, of course," he answers, earning a winning smile from Sylvie.

Foster says her goodbyes and leaves him standing alone with Sylvie again. "You look grumpy," she says, angling her head and studying his face intently. "Are you grumpy?"

It teases a smile out of him. Sure, his feelings are confusing right now, but it's next to impossible to be grumpy around a ray of sunshine like Sylvie Brett. "I'm not."

Skeptical, she narrows her eyes and lifts her hand to rub one index finger over the space between his eyebrows. Her soft touch sends a spark up his spine. "You've got that furrowed line you always get when you're grumpy. Would a hug help? Did I hug you already?"

Matt glances down at the floor, his smile growing. "No," he answers, glancing up to meet her blue gaze. "You haven't hugged me."

Her answering smile is soft and warm. "Prepare for incoming," she says, and steps into his personal space. Slowly her chin comes to rest against his shoulder first, then she wraps one arm around his neck, the other around his back, hugging him tightly. Still holding his beer in one hand, Matt folds one arm around her body, hand splayed against the exposed skin of her back, fingers brushing the criss-cross straps of her bra. He angles his head slightly to breathe in the combined scents of her shampoo and perfume. It reminds him of summertime flowers and sunshine.

She exhales softly, relaxing further against him, pulling him a little closer. "Don't be grumpy, Matt," she murmurs, her breath tickling his neck.

His stomach gives a long, slow flip, and all he can think is _uh-oh. _What the hell is he gonna do now?

Sylvie slowly unwinds her arms from his body and takes a tiny step back. Searching his face once more, she smiles, then rubs her finger between his brows again. "The hug worked. No more line."

"No more line," he agrees, tucking his hand into his pocket. "Do you want to stay a while, or are you ready to go home?"

"Hmm." She scrunches her face up while she mulls over his question. Every new expression seems more adorable than the last. Drunk Sylvie is cute as hell. "I think I'm ready to leave. Do you think Herrmann will let me have some water first?"

Matt chuckles and rubs a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, Sylvie. I'm sure Herrmann will let you have some water. Let's get your coat."

"I'm parked a few blocks away. Do you want to walk or wait here while I pull my truck around?" he asks once they're outside.

She's struggling to even open the water bottle in her hand, so he doesn't expect her to answer, "Let's walk. It's nice out!" But nothing about this night is what he expected. It's also not nice out. It's 20 degrees and windy. They only make it a few steps before she links her arm through his and leans against his side, shivering. "I lied, it's cold," she says, giggling into the night air. Matt can't stop the laugh that bubbles up in his throat.

"Hey, how was the hockey game?" she asks halfway through their walk. "Did the Bulls win?"

"Blackhawks," Matt corrects fondly, "and yes, they won. We had an awesome time!"

Sylvie pumps a celebratory fist in the air. "Yay, Blackhawks! Anyone get in a fight?"

"Some players got chippy, but nobody tossed their gloves." Sylvie's answering expression is utterly confused. Smiling, he clarifies. "No. There were no fights." She hums in response and they walk the rest of the way in companionable silence.

He gets the passenger door open and only allows Sylvie one attempt to climb into the cab by herself before giving her an assist. "Hey," she says as he starts to close the door. Matt pauses and arches his brows. "Have you ever been in a hockey fight?"

For what feels like the hundredth time that evening, and unable to stop himself, he grins at her. "Once or twice," he answers, and carefully closes the door.

Turning the ignition, he eases out of his parking spot and heads north toward Sylvie's place. They make it all of a block before she starts chatting up a storm and peppering him with questions. _Do you know where I live? Why is fighting allowed in hockey? How long did you play hockey? Can we turn on the radio? What kind of music do you like?_ _Did you know I got kicked out of a club tonight? _He answers each and every one, and tells her she can control the radio if she'd like. She beams across the cab at him like he's given her the biggest gift, and eagerly reaches for the volume buttons.

Sylvie skips through a dozen or so songs before pausing on a great classic rock station. _In the Air Tonight_ is on, which is one of his all-time favorites. Matt doesn't want to say that he'll judge her if she skips this one, too, but this is a classic that should be appreciated. Thankfully her hand drops and she leans back against her seat. "This is a good one."

He keeps his eyes on the road and nods, pleased to know they have this in common as well. "I agree."

_I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord_

_Well I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord, oh Lord_

The song builds, inching closer to the epic drum breakdown which everyone who's ever listened knows is the best part of the whole thing.

_Well the hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows_

_It's no stranger to you and me_

Like a perfectly choreographed routine, they simultaneously bust out the air drums for Phil's solo.

"Yes, Sylvie!" Matt laughs, holding up his hand for a high five, which she enthusiastically slaps. "My god, you earned so many cool points for that!" Her laughter fills his truck and reaches into his chest, stirring up feelings that have been dormant for far too long.

"Frankly, I don't want to be friends with anyone who doesn't do the drum solo. I'm glad we're still friends, Matt."

So is he.

He pulls his truck to a stop, parking outside her apartment building, and Sylvie rifles through her purse for her keys. The purse is barely larger than her cell phone, but she dumps the contents into lap and frowns. No keys in sight.

"My keys aren't here," she says, frantic. "Shit!"

Hard telling where they could be at this rate, but Matt doesn't want to make her feel worse. "Is Cruz home?"

Crestfallen, she shakes her head. "He and Chloe went to visit her parents for the weekend." Her head falls back against the headrest, and when she turns to look at him, there are tears shining in her eyes. And damn it all, that sad look cuts deep. "Matt, what am I gonna do?"

Matt starts the engine again, putting it in drive. "You can crash at my place tonight. I'll help you find your keys in the morning. Okay?"

Her smile is weary and tired, but it sure beats that sad expression a few moments ago. He'll take it. "Thank you," she whispers, and turns to stare out the window.

It's no surprise to him that Sylvie passes out on the ride back to his place. He's amazed she managed to stay awake as long as she did. By the time he parks his truck, she's snoring softly with her head resting against the window. He gently nudges her shoulder, softly saying her name. The attempt is futile. He gathers up the contents of her purse, tucking them carefully back inside, then hops out to help Sylvie.

He carefully opens the passenger side door with one hand and uses the other to keep her propped up. Sylvie startles awake, but once her eyes focus on his and recognition dawns, she relaxes in spades. "Hi," she mumbles, voice sleepy.

"Hi. C'mon. Let's get you inside." Reaching over her, he unbuckles the seatbelt and helps her down out of the truck. "Can you walk?" Her eyes remain closed and she resembles one of those silly bobblehead dolls when she tries to nod. So that's a no. He shuts the door and locks his truck. "Alright, up you go," he tells her, bending his knees to wrap his arms around her thighs, and slings Sylvie over his shoulder so he can carry her inside.

Sylvie squeaks and fists her hands into the fabric of his jersey. "Casey, I'm upside down!"

He huffs in amusement and gets her up to his apartment.

Once they're inside, he drops his keys onto the small entryway table by the door, and carries her to his room. He sets her down carefully and she plops down on the edge of his bed. "Are we in your bedroom?" she asks, looking around.

"Yes," he answers, and helps with the buttons of her coat. She kicks off her heels and they land with a _thud_ on the hardwood.

"What an interesting evening this has been," she says with a snickering laugh.

He echoes that sentiment. "Indeed. You're gonna sleep here. I'll be on the couch."

Sylvie shrugs out of her coat and reaches out to tug on his sleeve. "No, no. This is your room. I can sleep on the couch."

"It's late and I'm not going to argue with you. Take the bed," Matt insists. "Bathroom's through there." He glances down at her pants and can't imagine a scenario where those are comfortable to sleep in. "I'll get you some sweats to sleep in, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, holding out her hands for help off the bed. He pulls her to a standing position and she stumbles forward, wrapping her arms around him for the third time this evening. "Whoops! Sorry, Matt!" She's smaller now, in her bare feet, and she has to tilt her head back further this time to peer up at him.

This feels like a dangerously slippery slope. There's absolutely no way he's doing anything with her in this inebriated state. But now that she's standing in his bedroom at the edge of his bed, hands roaming up his back, he's going to have a really hard time moving forward pretending he doesn't know what it is that he wants. "I'll get those clothes for you," he manages, carefully extracting himself from her arms.

Matt pulls a pair of sweats and a faded Bears t-shirt from his dresser and hands them to Sylvie, avoiding all eye contact. It just feels safer that way. "Get changed and I'll bring you some water," he tells her, and walks out of his room closing the door firmly behind him.

Severide is sleeping at Stella's, so Matt uses his bathroom and grabs a bottle of ibuprofen for Sylvie from the medicine cabinet. She's going to have one monster hangover in the morning. These will help. He pours them both a glass of water and finds a bottle of Gatorade in the fridge. He drains his glass of water, then hears his bedroom door crack open. He grabs the water, pills, and Gatorade and carries them to his room.

Approaching with caution, he knocks, waits for the all clear from Sylvie before entering the space. "Come in," is her muffled response. Sitting in the middle of his bed with her legs crossed under her, swimming in his borrowed clothes, she lifts her head to smile at him. Matt likes the way she looks in his bed more than he has any right to given the circumstances. Sylvie is his friend, and he's glad he was there to help her out tonight and keep her safe. He doesn't want to think how this could have turned out if he'd let her go home in a goddamn rideshare.

"Here," he starts, handing over the water and Gatorade. "You need to hydrate. Also take two of these," he adds, setting the bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand.

"Thank you," she says, accepting the drinks, immediately sipping from the glass of water. "I should sleep now."

Matt smiles. "Yeah, that's a good idea." He takes the glass of water from her hand before it falls to the floor, placing it on the nightstand. Then he motions for her to get up and pulls down the covers on his bed. "Alright, in you go," he tells her.

"You're tucking me in?"

"So it would seem."

Sylvie slips into his bed and settles back against the pillows, sighing contentedly when he pulls the covers up to her chest. She rolls to her side, snuggling down further into the sheets until she's covered up to her chin. "It's comfy and cozy in here," she says, and this entire production begins to feel like torture. "Your sheets smell like you. You smell good."

Yep. Torture.

"Thank you," he says, because what the hell else is he supposed to say? "Get some sleep, Sylvie." Matt turns to leave, but Sylvie's fingers ensnare his wrist, halting his movement.

"Truth?" she asks, thumb absently skimming across his pulse point before sliding her hand down to rest on top of his.

Matt hesitates his response. "I don't know if I should say yes to that question right now," he admits, fighting the urge to turn his hand palm side up and lace his fingers with hers.

She smiles, and looks at him through lowered lashes, eyes heavy with sleep. "You should. I have three truths for you," she says, holding up three fingers on her other hand to accentuate her point. It is beyond adorable.

"Wow. Three, huh?"

Sylvie nods. "One, I'm very drunk."

Matt chuckles, and feels some of the tension in his chest ebb away. "That is an irrefutable fact."

"Two, you're very handsome." Her voice is small, her smile bashful as she says it, but her fingers gently squeeze his.

Flattered, he smiles back at her. "That's an opinion, not a fact."

A pout replaces the shy smile. "Shh! It's my truth to share."

A better man wouldn't do this. A better man would get up and walk away right now. A better man would never open his mouth and ask, "What's three?"

Sylvie squeezes his hand again, a slow, sleepy smile curving up the corners of her mouth. His heart beats faster, anticipating. "Three is—you're the very best there is, Matt Casey. And I'm so lucky to have you in my life."

Matt's rendered momentarily speechless. He doesn't feel like the very best anything right now. He clears the lump in his throat and replies, "That feeling is mutual, Sylvie Brett."

He attempts to pull his hand away and say goodnight, but she stops him again.

"Can I ask you one last question?"

Matt nods. "Sure. What is it?"

"You have to promise to tell me the truth. It's kind of our thing, you know."

There's a sinking feeling in his stomach—a warning perhaps—reminding him what a better man should do.

"I promise," he replies. "I'm always honest with you."

And it's true. He may not give her 100% of everything, but he always answers with something truthful.

"Have you ever thought about kissing me?"

_Fuck._

Matt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He feels another squeeze against his hand, as though she's reminding him that she's still there, still waiting for him to fulfill his promise. As if he could forget. When he opens them again, she's staring at him expectantly.

"Yes. I have thought about it."

Smiling, she releases his hand, tucks it under her cheek resting on his pillow. She closes her eyes and whispers, "I've thought about it, too. Night, Matt."

"Goodnight, Sylvie."

Switching off the bedside lamp and cloaking the room in darkness, he walks quietly through the door, closing it gently behind him. Her words echo inside his brain.

_I've thought about it, too._

What's he supposed to do with this information that he shouldn't have in the first place?

Deciding to put a pin in it until morning, he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and lies down on his bed for the night.

He stares at the ceiling for a long while, willing his traitorous brain to shut off. Instead of resting, however, it supplies an endless loop of the evening's events. Kind of like Sports Center, only it's all Sylvie.

_Sylvie's hot outfit._

_Sylvie laughing. _

_Sylvie hugging him._

_Don't be Grumpy, Matt._

_You're very handsome._

_You're the very best there is, Matt Casey._

_I've thought about it, too._

He thought it earlier in the evening, but it's abundantly, painfully clear to him now.

In bright, neon flashing letters: YOU'RE COMPLETELY FUCKED!


	5. Miserable Now

_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour_

_But heaven knows I'm miserable now_

— "_Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths _

* * *

Sylvie wakes slowly the next morning, floating somewhere in that hazy middle in between sleep and wakefulness. The pull to sleep a little longer is strong, but the sun's far too bright in the room even through closed eyes. _Weird. _She must have forgotten to close the blackout curtains last night before crawling into bed. There's a part of her that considers getting up and closing them now, but her head throbs like someone's leading a parade of bass drums inside her skull. The inside of her mouth feels like a cotton ball factory, though it's coupled with that strange watery sensation in her jaw that happens when she's close to throwing up. As hangovers go, this one's a doozy. She stays put, opting instead for pulling the covers over her head and sending up a prayer for the pulsing in her head and the roiling in her stomach to take a hike.

Something doesn't feel quite right, but she can't put her finger on it. Maybe she's dreaming. She focuses on her breathing to quell the nauseated feeling. Inhaling slowly through her nose she detects the faint scent of men's cologne and laundry detergent that's somehow familiar, but definitely isn't her normal brand. The unease intensifies when she runs her hand over the sheets, feeling soft flannel against her skin. She doesn't own flannel sheets. That can only mean one thing—she slept in someone else's bed last night.

Holy shit!

She racks her brain for memories of the night before. _Girls night. Stella. Emily. Vodka sodas. Tequila. Dancing. Molly's?_ The rest is a blur, which is no surprise when tequila shots were involved. She hears rustling movement across the room and what sounds like the opening of a dresser drawer. Her pulse spikes, providing the jolt of adrenaline she needs to finally pry her eyes open. What the hell happened last night? Where is she? Who's in the room? When did she get so careless? Why, why, why?

This isn't her home. She simply can't hide under the covers all day and hope that the owner of this bed will forget she's there, allowing her to sneak out with the last shred of her remaining dignity. _Dammit_. Time to face the music and get some answers.

You can do this, Sylvie Brett.

On three.

She counts to three—twice—before finally working up enough guts to poke her head out from under the covers. The sunlight streaming through the room assaults her eyeballs the moment her safety blanket is peeled away and exacerbates the pounding in her head. Hissing in protest, she struggles to push up on her elbows to see who's in the room with her.

It's a good thing she's already in a prone position, because seeing a freshly-showered Matt Casey across the room in nothing but a white towel wrapped precariously around his hips and applying deodorant to his armpits is enough to make a girl faint.

_What. The. Fuck? _

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," Matt says, voice low and deep, like the first spoken words of the day. His first words of the day and he gave them to her. "I've got a job to work on today and needed to grab some clothes."

All she can do is blink and nod stupidly at him while her brain tries not to short circuit. She spent the night in Matt Casey's bed and she remembers nothing. _Nothing!_ Not one inkling of a clue as to how she got there or what happened after.

Sylvie has a brief flash of Foster telling her last night that she should just sit on Casey's face to let him know she's interested. She'll scold herself momentarily for thinking it, but—if she and Matt had sex last night and she can't remember any of it, this will go down singlehandedly as the greatest disappointment of her adult life.

"No problem," she manages, wincing at the gritty sound that comes out of her mouth. She pushes herself to a fully upright position and her stomach churns.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, concern etched across his ridiculously handsome face. A face that she may or may not have ridden last night. Embarrassed, she lowers her gaze away from his face only to find herself staring at his bare, well-muscled chest, which makes her whole body flush. Her hangover is the 7th circle of hell levels of terrible, yet it doesn't stop her from getting turned on by the kind, sexy man in front of her. The Matt Casey Effect, ladies and gentleman.

"Terrible," she answers truthfully. For multiple reasons. She closes her eyes, breathes through a wave of nausea that escapes her throat as a pathetic whimpering sound. All she wants is to curl up into a fetal position and sleep until this hangover releases her from its evil clutches. But she can't do that. Not here in his bed. _In Matt Casey's bed!_ Where she spent the night doing god knows what.

Stretching her arms out in front of her, she finally dawns on her that she's wearing different clothes than the night before. Looking down she sees a navy Chicago Bears t-shirt on her body, which means her clothes _did_ come off. The discovery only leads to more questions. _How_ did her clothes come off? Did _she _undress herself? God, did _Matt_ peel away the bodysuit and leather pants? She swallows the lump in her throat. In all the scenarios she'd imagined in her head getting naked with Matt (and there have been more than a few, okay?) not one of them ended like this.

_This is a travesty! _

She knows what has to be done. It's the right thing, the adult thing to do. _I don't wanna!_ No, she doesn't want to open her mouth and ask him the question that's forefront in her brain. But how else is she going to learn the truth? The embarrassment factor here carries a high degree of difficulty. For goodness sake, she had to avoid him all day after he saw her changing shirts in the locker room and she fell down. This embarrassment has the potential to send her to an early grave.

Cocooned in his sheets doesn't feel like the best location to ask such a question. Plus, if everything goes sideways and this ends up being the most painfully awkward conversation to ever exist, she'll at least have both feet already on the floor in order to make a speedy exit. Reluctantly, she tosses the covers back, sending up a quick thanks that her legs are covered in sweatpants, and slowly swings them over the side of the bed. There's an unopened red Gatorade and a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand. Matt must have put them out for her. Now's not the time to be completely charmed by his thoughtfulness, but seeing as this day is already insane, it's honestly _whatever_ at this point. She reaches for the ibuprofen out of necessity to her aching head, but also to stall a few seconds longer.

Time to face the music, or in her case, the half naked hunk in a white towel. Tomato, tomahto. _Ugh. Just start talking, Sylvie._

"I'm confused," she says, turning slightly so her face is pointed at him.

A huff of laughter rumbles out of his mouth. "I don't doubt that," he says wryly, lips ticking up into a half smile. His eyes are kind and soft, focused in that way of his that make whoever he's talking to feel important. That look that simultaneously makes her want to tell him all her secrets and run like hell to protect herself from her already too big feelings.

"Last night is—foggy to say the least. I don't remember much." Her stomach churns. "Did, um—did we—" she trails off. _Just ask already! _She tips her head up, eyes cast towards the ceiling in a silent prayer. "Matt, did we have sex last night?"

As soon as the words pass lips she wants to throw up. And not in the metaphorical sense that comes from having a difficult conversation. Her roiling stomach sours further and her jaw goes watery again. No, this time she's about two seconds from retching, and the last thing she wants or needs is to vomit all over Casey's bedroom floor. "Oh no!" she cries, clamping a hand over her mouth. She bolts for his adjoining bathroom, kicking the door closed behind her, and pukes her brains out in the toilet.

Tequila Shots: 1,000,000

Sylvie: 0

She throws up again, and then once more for good measure. Death can come for her at any time. She's ready. Matt knocks lightly against the door, and Sylvie tenses, hoping he doesn't come in. This day is already awful; the last thing she needs is for him to see her on her knees hugging the toilet. Tears prickle the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back. No matter how much she wants to cry right now, she flat out refuses to do it. "I'm fine," she lies. "Gimme a minute."

The nausea has thankfully subsided for now, so she drags herself up off the bathroom floor and flushes the toilet. She turns on the sink to wash her hands, and looks in the mirror, wincing at her reflection. Last night's makeup has smudged so far down she resembles a damn racoon. Her hair is a rat's nest, eyes bloodshot, and her skin is pale and clammy. She's a dumpster fire inside and out.

She takes a couple of minutes to clean herself up the best she can with the resources available in plain sight. Hand soap and water go a long way, and she takes a swig from the bottle of mouthwash on the counter. The strong peppermint flavor almost makes her gag, but she fights through. The tangles in her hair are not budging, so that's a battle she won't be winning. This time, when she glances at her reflection again, she doesn't recoil. It's a marked improvement, and that's good enough.

Opening the bathroom door, she sees Matt sitting at the foot of the bed, now fully dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, putting on his socks and work boots. She vaguely recalls him telling her he has a job to work on today. Not only is she embarrassed, but now a wave of guilt crashes over her having delayed him.

Matt lifts his head, his face blankly inscrutable while he finishes tying his boots. "So," he starts slowly, "I'm trying hard not to be offended that you threw up a second after asking if we had sex. Really gives a guy a complex, you know?" Amusement dances into his eyes and his lips twitch into a playful smirk. He's teasing her. That smartass. "Sylvie, nothing happened last night."

Relief floods through her body, the huge weight lifting off her shoulders. "Oh, thank god!" she says, resting a hand to her heart. Matt lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips together in a thin line like he's half offended by her words. Which is silly. Why would he be offended? "It's not a dig on you, Matt! That would have been extremely out of character for me, so I'm just—relieved, you know?"

He nods. "Yeah, of course. I get it," he tells her, rubbing a hand along his jaw, brows pinching together and making that line of frustration pop.

Leaning back against the door jamb for support, she folds her hands in front of her. It feels like she's missing something here, but that's probably the hangover anxiety she's experiencing. As if the physical effects of a hangover weren't bad enough on their own, she gets to suffer through the myriad possibilities of things she may have said and done. It's unnerving, to say the least.

"How did I end up here?" she asks.

He shrugs, staring down at his hands. "I gave you a ride home from Molly's last night, but when we got there your keys weren't in your purse. So, I brought you back here." Looking up, he gestures towards the living room. "I slept on the couch," he insists.

Maybe it's just the combination of everything she's experienced so far today weighing on her, but she gets the impression that he's upset with her now. What if she said or did something to him last night that she can't remember? Anything is possible at this point. She needs to ask him. Apologize for whatever it is she may have done. Her eyes sting again, but crying in front of Matt Casey today is not on her list. Not after every other embarrassing thing she's done in front of him already.

"Thank you, Matt," she replies finally. "For being a good friend and looking out for me."

Sylvie thinks she catches a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, but it passes so quickly it's hard to be sure. He's got walls up now. Whatever emotions he's feeling won't be shared with her. A long, awkward beat passes between them before he answers, "You're welcome, Brett."

_Brett_. Not Sylvie. He hardly ever calls her Brett off-shift anymore. Ugh, she hates this. Hates whatever she inevitably did or said that pulled the thread that suddenly feels like the start of their unraveling friendship.

The front door opens and closes, and she hears the sound of Severide's footsteps approaching Matt's room. He knocks on the open door before poking his head inside. "Glad you're here, Brett," he says with a friendly smile. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out her set of keys. "Stella had them in her purse. She was drunk and forgot about them."

Another wave of relief washes over her. Now she seriously has to get out of Dodge before the dam breaks on the tears she's narrowly holding back. "Thank you so much, Severide!" she says, crossing the room to grab her keys. "You're a lifesaver!"

"No sweat. How're you feeling today?" he asks, lips twitching into a half grin.

"Awful," she answers. "Worst hangover of my life, I think."

He chuckles. "I'll bet. You were quite the party girl last night. Stella's struggling today, too."

Sylvie forces a half smile on her face that surely looks as strained as it feels. Severide's eyes dart over towards Matt, then back to her. Sure, he's perceptive by nature, but you'd have to be dead not to notice tension in the room so thick you could cut it with a knife. There's no way she's sticking around for one of their silent conversations that could only be about one subject—her. "I'm gonna go," she announces. "I'll grab an Uber and let you both get on with your day."

"No." Matt's clipped response catches her off guard. With the way things have suddenly soured between them, she figured he'd be glad to get her out of his hair. She dares a quick glance back over her shoulder to get a better read on him, but it's pointless. His face is unreadable when he stands and says, "I'm going that way for today's job anyway. I'll drop you off."

Great. That shouldn't be awkward and uncomfortable in the least.

Severide gives her another friendly smile and says, "See you next shift, Brett. Later, Casey."

Nervously clearing her throat, her eyes search the room for her clothes. "I need to get changed. It will only take—"

"Don't worry about it," he cuts her off, handing her a plastic grocery bag with her neatly folded clothes and high heels inside.

The mixed messages she's getting from him leave her head spinning. On one hand, it's a nice gesture. So characteristic of him, her friend, the man she's been falling for. But he's closed off now, eyes flat, rudely interrupting her mid-sentence. Hurrying her out the door as though he can't wait to be rid of her.

She doesn't want to appear ungrateful, but she can't very well walk out of here in bare feet in the middle of winter. Before she can reach for her shoes, he hands her a pair of moccasin slippers. They look new, which doesn't surprise her. Matt doesn't particularly strike her as the slipper-wearing kind of guy. If she had to guess, these were probably a Christmas gift at one point. Why she's standing here pondering his stupid slippers is beyond her.

"They'll be too big on you, but surely more comfortable than those," Matt says, motioning towards her heels.

The confusion grows. _What is happening?_ She can't make her mouth say the words. Her throat clogs with an onslaught of tears, so she merely nods her agreement before sliding her feet into the borrowed slippers. They are definitely too big on her feet, but not unmanageable, and definitely more comfortable. Just like he said. She picks her coat up off the chair in the corner, snags the bottle of Gatorade from the nightstand, and follows him to the living room.

Matt shrugs into his coat, plucking a set of keys off the table by the door. He spares a glance in her direction—just barely—before asking, "Ready?"

As she'll ever be.

Sylvie turns and lifts a hand goodbye to Severide, who appears just as confused by this behavior as she is, if his narrowed brows are any indication. His parting smile seems to tell her what she needs to hear right now.

_Good luck. _

* * *

If someone had told her yesterday that today she'd be praying for alone time with Matt Casey to hurry up and end, she'd have said they'd lost all of their damn marbles. Yet here she is, barely halfway through the 20 minute drive to her place, drowning in the gulf of stony silence between them. Turning the radio on might help a little, she thinks, but she can't drum up the nerve to ask. Asking means talking and that's evidently not a thing that's happening between them right now.

They've gotten pretty good at talking to each other lately, too, which is why this sucks even worse. She knows she needs to rip off the bandaid and ask him what's wrong, but it's like she's paralyzed and physically cannot bring herself to do it. Not helping the situation is how sick she's still feeling from this godforsaken hangover. No matter how much she doesn't really believe it, Sylvie swears she's never drinking again. She blows out a quiet sigh, not wanting to draw any kind of attention from the driver's side of the truck, and stares out her window for the rest of the drive to her place.

The remaining 10 minutes pass at a glacial pace, but Matt _finally_, _mercifully_ pulls to a stop outside her building. She unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs the plastic bag containing her party clothes from the middle seat. Her parents raised her to be polite, so she can't very well get out of his truck without at least thanking him. The last thing she needs is one more thing to feel crappy about. Though she can't make herself meet his eyes, she turns her head in his direction and mutters, "Thanks, Casey. I'll see you around." It feels wholly inadequate for the friendship they've built these last couple months, and, frankly, rude. And she's never rude. But it meets the bare minimum standards of politeness, which is the best she's capable of right now.

She opens the door and climbs down, her slippered feet finding purchase on the curb. Just as she's about to close it and run away, Matt opens his mouth and bites out, "Just so we're clear, Brett—I don't go around taking women to bed who are too drunk to know what's going on. That's not who I am."

Sylvie's eyes snap to his face, her eyebrows knitting together in utter confusion. Well, of course that's not who he is. Who would _ever_ think that? Who _could _ever? His jaw is clenched so tight it's a wonder to her that his teeth don't break under the pressure. If the jaw twitch didn't clue her in, then the storm clouds rolling in his eyes definitely would. She knows when he's angry and right now he's pissed!

"I know you're not," she replies as though it were that simple.

It should be.

It isn't.

Matt snorts derisively. "Do you really?" he asks bitterly. "Is that why you made me feel a goddamn inch tall earlier acting so relieved that we didn't have sex?"

His tone rankles, leaving her feeling gobsmacked, and she takes a beat to process what he's just lobbed at her. Where is this coming from? Sylvie tries to recall everything she said to him this morning, and nothing stands out. Nothing that adds up to his reaction. Lake effect wind chooses that exact moment to kick up, blowing her hair all around and chilling her to the bones. But she'll be damned if she climbs back into his truck to ward off the cold in order to finish this—whatever it is. It's colder inside now at any rate.

"My reaction had nothing to do with you, Casey," Sylvie replies, struggling to keep her voice calm. It's not untrue, but it sure as hell isn't the whole truth either. Foolish fantasies and crushes aside, she'd never want to risk their friendship for a drunken one night stand that she wouldn't have been able to remember.

A sneer curls unpleasantly across his lips. It's a look she's never seen before, and it's not one she cares for very much. Particularly when Matt opens his mouth and follows it up with,, "Could've fooled me."

Sylvie bites the inside of her cheek and counts to three to hold back her temper. Lashing back isn't going to help the situation. "I'm really having trouble understanding where this is coming from. Can you please just tell me why you're upset? Or are you purposely trying to pick a fight and push me away?"

Matt opens his mouth to say something, but stops short. His eyes shutter closed and he pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders sagging as a big, tired sigh heaves past his lips. It's as though the fight has been completely drained out of him. When his eyes open again, the anger is long gone, but something worse has moved in to take its place. He's hurt.

Understanding begins to dawn on her, the moment things shifted in his room this morning when she'd noticed that he looked hurt by her enthusiastic admission of relief. At least she thinks that could be it, anyway. "Matt, I didn't know where I was when I first woke up this morning. Do you have any idea how disorienting that was for me? I couldn't remember a good portion of last night—and I still can't. I didn't know who I'd gone home with. It's my own fault for drinking too much, I get that. But did you ever stop and think for a minute about how I saw you standing in your towel smiling at me first thing this morning? It's not a huge leap that I might wonder if something happened between us."

He chews on that for a second, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. Talking about feelings isn't his strong suit; she's known him long enough to understand that. But he'll never get better if he doesn't try. Finally he meets her gaze head on, blue eyes earnest and sad. "Do you really think I would ever take advantage of you like that, Sylvie?"

There it is—_the why_—the truth she was after. She hurt his feelings; and she hates that she did. Though Sylvie suspects that there's something a little deeper at play here, too. Things from the past that left bruises on his heart that haven't healed fully. Bruises that show themselves when someone presses the wrong way, like she evidently did. Bruises left by a person they never talk about.

Her own heart lurches in her chest, a flurry of complicated emotions coursing through her veins. She wants to help heal those old wounds of his, but she doesn't know that he'll ever let her. And that makes her immeasurably sad. For them both. The tears she's managed to keep at bay all morning fight their way through, stinging her eyes at the corners. For once she's grateful for the Chicago wind to blame should he ask. But first she has to answer his question, the one that came with a half brokenhearted look.

"No," she insists. "I know you would never do that to me. To anyone." He seems placated by her answer and heading towards relief. "You're a good man, Matt Casey. The very best there is."

The very best there is, who will likely never be hers.

Matt blinks slowly as one corner of his mouth ticks up almost imperceptibly. She's not sure what that look means, but he no longer appears to be upset with her. She'll take it. He keeps his eyes on hers and says, "Thanks, Sylvie." He glances at the clock and winces at the time. "I gotta go."

Sylvie nods, feeling guilty for making him late. "Yep. See you next shift," she manages then closes the door. She turns on her heel in her too-big, borrowed slippers, and shuffles towards the entrance as hot tears roll down her cheeks.


End file.
